Eagle of the Star
by Neoinean
Summary: Aragorn’s time as Thorongil, soldier of Rohan and Gondor, from the events that cause his departure south to the events surrounding his return to his family. This story belongs as much to his family as they wait as it does to Aragorn.
1. Prologue: Abridged meeting of the wise

**Prologue: Abridged meeting of the wise

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**

_Early in the year 2957 of the Third Age..._

It was a quiet tugging in the back of his mind. A suggestion, really. A shadow of a thought that pricked at him in quiet moments when there was naught else to think of.

_Come, Elrond. Come to Lothlórien_.

The lord of Imladris felt an undefined urgency about the summons; however, he definitely did _not_ feel as though the matter were life and death. No, it was a matter of a different kind of urgency, one upon which the fate of Middle-earth would eventually reside. Although, one can never tell what an elf means when they say 'eventually.'

No, this was a matter of the utmost import and countless lives would _eventually_ hang in the balance. Yet right now there was a brief luxury of time, or as much of a luxury one could have with the ever-growing, ever-threatening shadow of Mordor looming off in yet another _eventuality_.

Right now, there was an urgent matter to attend to, but only in its due time.

And as for now, Lord Elrond Peredhil was luxuriously afforded an expanse of several weeks to quietly and unobtrusively get his affairs in order, so as to make arrangements for a stay of unknown duration in the Golden Wood. He was assured that his twins would be still a while in Mirkwood on some caper or other with Prince Legolas, and he was confident enough in their collective abilities to not worry overmuch should they return to find him away from Imladris. His youngest son, now but only briefly a man, was in the middle of his current tour of duty with the Dúnedain who were his kin, and though Elrond was still adjusting to the reality that Estel was to be counted an adult by the standards of his race he knew that Bowen, the acting Dúnedain chieftain since Arathorn's passing, was keeping the boy on a relatively short leash until he proved himself worthy of his inheritance. His daughter Arwen was still residing in Lothlórien with her mother's kin, and though Elrond was certain that Arwen wasn't the outright cause of his subtle summons to the Golden Wood, nonetheless he knew that she would have some part to play upon his arrival.

Whatever his own considerable foresight had missed, he was certain that Galadriel's had not. That was the reason for the summons, the reason that their mental link, so rarely used in these days of increasing shadow, returned to prick at the rear-guard of his mind. As disconcerting as it was to have one's own mother-in-law rooting around inside one's head, the Lady of Light was ever so much more than that, was and ever had been kin to him all through the years of his life, and so it had never occurred to him that he might deny her this privilege, futile though the gesture might have been.

And so Lord Elrond Peredhil left the running of Imladris in the hands of Erestor, his seneschal and chief advisor, and set off for Lothlórien in the company only of a small contingent of guards, captained of course by the strategus of Imladris, one Lord Glorfindel, formerly of the House of the Golden Flower, Elrond's close personal friend, counselor, and self-appointed protector.

"Tell me again why we are journeying to Lothlórien in the dead of winter?" the Vanya asked, incredulousness wrapped snugly up inside a blanket of good humor.

Elrond shrugged beside him as they picked their way though the increasing snow drifts. "I am not sure," he confessed, even as his horse seemed to stumble on weaker ground. "Remind me to ask Galadriel when we arrive."

Glorfindel snickered beside him, his own mount finding no trouble in the snow, but said nothing further.

The Golden Wood was reached in due time. Progress was a bit slower than the elves would have liked, for even though they faced no real hazard traveling over the snows in their path, their horses were another matter. Finally they reached Lothlórien, where winter never seemed to linger inside the outer borders, and were met by a contingent of the Lord Celeborn's soldiers.

"_Suilad_, Galadhrim!" Elrond called as the archers seemed to materialize soundlessly about them. The Galadhrim had their bows notched but the arrows pointed towards the ground in their long-standing tradition of guarded welcoming.

"_Suilad_, hir-Elrond," greeted the march-warden. "_Mae govannen_!"

Elrond slid from his horse with consummate grace and caught the march-warden's forearm in a warrior's handshake as the rest of his contingent dismounted behind him. With wordless proficiency, the rest of the guards disappeared even as groomsmen came forth to tend to the visitors' horses.

"I am saddened, Rúmil," said Glorfindel as he came to stand beside Elrond. "You have much propriety when it comes to greeting lords, but can spare no words of welcome for an old friend?"

The march-warden laughed outright. "My apologies, _Lord_ Glorfindel," he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Please allow me to welcome you once again to the Golden Wood."

Glorfindel laughed merrily as he and Rúmil locked arms in kind.

"Apology accepted," he said as they dropped hands once again. "Now where is that infernal brother of yours? I have a mind to not spend this sojourn idly."

This time it was Rúmil who laughed, though Elrond readily joined him, having already guessed the Vanya's mind.

"If you are referring to Orophin, he is using the splint on his arm as a way of endearing himself to an elleth – the same elleth, mind, for which he first injured himself in some fool bid seeking her attention."

More Elven laughter was heard, though the healer in Elrond was mentally making note to check on the youngest of the brothers personally as soon as time allowed.

"However," Rúmil continued with an overstated sense of chagrin, "I suppose I must assume you meant our own captain-general. He may yet still be in Caras Galadhon, having returned early from his post upon receiving word that our brother was injured."

"And I'll bet he was less than pleased to learn that Orophin's injury was caused not in the course of duty but in trying to impress some fair maid?" Elrond asked, amused.

"Indeed you would be correct, my lord," Rúmil answered readily. "However, you probably already know that Orophin would count impressing maidens as being but part of the course of duty – but come! The Lord and Lady are waiting."

Rúmil lead their party through the paths beneath the trees and eventually into the heart of Caras Galadhon, where they were met by the captain-general himself, obviously still within the Elven city.

"Mae Govannen, Haldir!" Rúmil called out to his brother, who stood impassive. However, the sight of friends of old was enough to break the air of cold indifference about him, and he broke into a rare, genuine smile.

"Mae Govannen!" Haldir called back, raising an arm in greeting. Rúmil clasped that arm first, for they were brothers, followed by Glorfindel, for they were good friends and contemporaries of position, and then lastly Haldir bowed before Lord Elrond, who acknowledged the gesture with a simple, regal nod.

And none batted an eyelash at this reversal of propriety.

"It is good to see you all again," Haldir continued, the smile now more subdued though it lingered still. "However, I'm afraid that continued pleasantries must wait. The Lord and Lady are waiting, as is Mithrandir, who arrived not long ahead of you."

Rúmil's serene expression blossomed into a wide grin, for he was unaware that the wizard was to be arriving as well. Beside him though it seemed that the Lords Elrond and Glorfindel were conducting some private conversation using little more than pointed stares, a slight twitch of the lips, and at last the subtle quirking of one eyebrow.

"Business always before pleasure," Glorfindel groaned, though his eyes were sparkling. Then he turned to address his contemporary. "Haldir, I wonder if, after my part in this impromptu council meeting is over, you may find something more viscerally engaging to occupy my time whilst the Wise continue their discussions?"

Haldir found a sincere smile for the thought of Glorfindel joining him on patrol, but then the smile fell as his face darkened. "As much as it would please me to accommodate you, I am afraid that the Lord and Lady have other plans for your time."

"I see," said Glorfindel, masking his surprise with an ease of effort afforded by countless years of practice. "Well, I suppose we best not keep them waiting."

Once again it seemed that the lords appeared to hold some sort of secret discourse, though this one abruptly ended when Elrond nodded towards Haldir.

"Quite right," Elrond acknowledged, and that was Haldir's cue. He led their way through the under-city until they came to the base of the appropriate mallorn tree. There Elrond gestured for Glorfindel to precede him just as Haldir caught their attention again.

"My Lord Elrond," Haldir called out, having just remembered his other important message. Elrond turned around, and Glorfindel halted his ascent. "The fair Undómiel instructed me to offer you her fondest greetings. She is presently sequestered with some childhood friends, preferring their distracting company to the prospect of waiting for an unspecified time for the Wise to conclude the more pressing business at hand. However, she will greet her father properly after the meeting has adjourned."

Elrond smiled his warmest smile at this latest news, for the prospect of seeing his daughter – whose presence he had sorely missed these past years – was enough to make even an unscheduled convening of the Council of the Wise seem not so bad a prospect. "Thank you, Haldir. If you may, please pass my fondest greetings along to my daughter also, and tell her that I will most assuredly find the time to meet with her once this business has concluded."

Haldir nearly laughed aloud at the formality with which the Lord of Imladris addressed the matter, for all knew how eagerly Elrond was awaiting the chance to see his daughter again. The captain-general stayed to watch as Elrond and Glorfindel climbed to the requisite level and thence disappeared from sight.

Presently Rúmil came to stand beside his brother, and they passed a few moments in contemplative silence.

"Oh, to be an insect on a leaf at this meeting!" Rúmil offered finally.

"That is said every time the Wise convene," Haldir retorted.

"The Wise, yes, but this is more than just the wise, oh brother mine."

Haldir chuckled. "Indeed. Saruman is not present at this meeting."

Both Elven faces contorted into slight visages of disgust at the mentioning of the White Wizard's name.

"And I for one am glad," said Rúmil unashamedly. "None of the guard will sleep the night that _nim orch_ sets foot in these woods again."

"Mind your tongue," Haldir scolded without emotion, for he was of similar feelings even though his discretion was better than that of his brother.

"I will apologize for the statement," said Rúmil, matching his brother's tone. "But not the thought."

Haldir nodded slightly and silence returned for a time.

"How fares the Evenstar?" Rúmil asked eventually.

Haldir sighed. "I fear that our brother is having little success in keeping her thoughts occupied."

"I cannot say that I blame her," Rúmil mused. "Her future is currently being decided by an abridged version of the council of the Wise, and none have bothered to ask her for her own opinions."

"You forget that the Lady, extrasensory gifts not withstanding, is also the Evenstar's grandmother. I do believe that Arwen will be justly represented at this meeting."

"I do not forget," Rúmil stated, chiding slightly at the suggestion. "However, I believe that _you_ forget that I have been in Imladris when the well-being of Lord Elrond's children has been called into question. I am wondering if even the Lady Galadriel will be able to influence him as far as his only daughter is concerned."

Haldir spared a moment to wince at the memory Rúmil was referring to. "Nor do I forget," he reassured, but then he sighed. "I do not know what true opinions reside in the hearts of the Lord and Lady, but I do know that Lord Elrond will not suffer to be eternally parted from his daughter, surely as Anor rises."

"But doubtless Elrond knows better than anyone, the implications of a love between a mortal man and an elleth. Doubtless he must know that denying their love would be to deny his own heritage."

"Mind your tongue!" Haldir scolded, this time with force, and Rúmil was thoroughly rebuked.

Both were silent for a time, lost in their own thoughts. They both well remembered the dreary-dark times after Lady Celebrían sailed into the west. Arwen had been able to find healing here in Lothlórien, and a measure of calmness and tranquility for her battered spirit that had suffered so at the fate of her mother. In that time she grew in grace, beauty, and wisdom under the enchantment of the Golden Wood, and while she indeed seemed to be at peace, her laughter no longer tinkled like silver bells and her azure eyes never again quite lit up with her beautiful smiles. While she wasn't fading, neither then was she thriving; just merely surviving, finding and acceptance with life and harmony within Arda's song, of which they were all a part.

Then, nearly six years ago, a miraculous change occurred. Suddenly it was as though the ever-present veil of shadow had been lifted from her complacent spirit. There was an almost childlike spring to her step, and her laughter echoed musically and often throughout the Golden Wood. Many marveled at this seemingly sudden change, for it appeared to them that the Evenstar had regained her happiness at last.

At the time, none suspected that this miracle had come in the form of Estel of Imladris (or Aragorn Isildur's heir, as was known to very few). When the three brothers –who had ever been her friends in childhood – learned of the truth, they rejoiced that love had rekindled the flame of the Evenstar's fëa. Only later did they learn the identity (_partial _identity) and so mortality of her love, and when this truth was revealed, they discovered that they could not begrudge Arwen her happiness. Love bowed before no master, and this love had verily saved the Evenstar's spirit, even though its price was to be counted beyond all cost. For Arwen to be happy, if even for a very brief time that would ultimately end in tragedy, that fate was deemed better than the ghost of an existence she had been leading. As elves of the Sindar, Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin believed that this new hope brought the chance at a happy, if finite, life in Arda, and that was worth more than the eternity of a salvaged existence in the Blessed Realm.

Finally Rúmil spoke again. "Do you remember father's stories, about how Lord Celeborn sat on King Thingol's council in Doriath?"

When Haldir nodded Rúmil continued: "he witnessed firsthand a love between the first- and second-born. He must know of both its wonders and of its sorrows. And so too must Lord Glorfindel, for do not forget, he stood witness to the love between Tuor and Idril. I am certain they will speak their peace concerning history, and I can assure you that their testimony will be important."

"Indeed," Haldir agreed. "But remember, Tuor was beloved also of the mighty Ulmo, so much so that he was welcomed to sail into the west at the end of his days. And do not forget that Thingol's bride-price for Lúthien was perhaps a touch too high."

"Now you must be the one to hold your tongue, brother mine," Rúmil teased. "But we are all aware of how Beren completed his assigned task and was granted the King's leave to wed his only daughter."

Haldir sighed, a brief chuff of laughter sneaking out alongside it. "This proves naught but that we both paid attention to our history lessons," he said with as much an air of dejection as his naturally stoic persona could muster. "Arwen's love is not beloved of the Valar, and that leaves only one option."

Rúmil nodded thoughtfully. "A quest," he said at length. "A quest to prove that his hand is worthy of the Evenstar."

Haldir nodded. "I fear it so," he answered. "And I pity the youngest son of Elrond if that is to be the final ruling of the Wise."

"Why do you fear?" Rúmil asked, confused. "What quest could possibly compare to the trials or Beren and Lúthien?"

Haldir smiled sadly, a rare show of emotion. "Think, brother. What are the consequences if an appropriate quest can be found?"

Rúmil cast his gaze slowly eastward as realization dawned. Even though he was unaware of Aragorn's true heritage, the only things possible for comparison resided within the land of Shadow. Indeed, if history were to repeat itself – for such methods were tried and true – then the only challenge worthy to test the mettle of the mortal suitor of Arwen Undómiel would have something to do with Mordor.

"You are right," Rúmil agreed. "I do pity him."

* * *

**Translations:**

_Arda_: the world  
_Vanya_: Singular form of _Vanyar_.  
_Elleth/Ellyth_: elf maiden/pleural  
_Fëa_: spirit_  
__Hir_: lord… therefore: _hir-nin_: my lord, _hir-[name]_: Lord [name]_  
Mae govannen_: well met  
_Nim orch_: white orc  
_Suilad_: hail/greetings  
_  
_

* * *

**Notes: **

_- On the Dúnedain chieftain_: Arathorn was chieftain when he died, but Aragorn his heir was only two at the time. Therefore an interim chieftain had to be selected, and I have taken liberties to name him here.

- _On Glorfindel_: In this story, Glorfindel of Imladris is the reincarnation of Glorfindel of Gondolin, a Vanya Elf in the service of the Noldor King Turgon, who died protecting Gondolin's refugees in the infamous fight with one of Morgoth's balrogs. It should be noted that his reincarnation is not definitive canon.

- _On march-wardens_, _etc_: A march-warden is the leader of a "march," or rather, the captain of a patrol. There are many patrols, and the leader of each holds the title of march-warden. I have granted Rúmil that position here. "Captain-general" would be more akin to the strategus rank I have given Glorfindel, but it does not imply a sense of rank or status outside military circles. Haldir, as captain-general, is in charge of all Lothlórien's soldiers, but he does not make the decisions concerning military strategy, as Glorfindel would for Imladris.

- _On the White Council (of the Wise)_: I have found no references as to who exactly belonged on this council, save for Gandalf, Saruman, Elrond, and Galadriel. For the sake of argument, I am including Celeborn among the council (though history often overshadows him in the presence of his wife) as well as Círdan, who holds an honorary position since he by rights should be included but doesn't often leave the Havens.

_- On the mental link between Elrond and Galadriel_: Galadriel has been gifted with both foresight and the ability to project her thoughts to others in a kind of telepathy. I believe that these qualities were enhanced by her ring (Nenya). Elrond's own gifts of perception are therefore also enhanced by Vilya, as would be Gandalf's by Narya. Thus I am conceding that Galadriel is able to somewhat communicate to both Elrond and Gandalf over great distances with the aid of her ring, yet such use is much discontinued in this time of the growing threat of Sauron.


	2. Ch 1: Going south

**Chapter 1: Going south

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**

_Several months later..._

Estel was tired, but contentedly so. He had just reemerged from his bedchamber, having bathed and changed from his earlier workout. He could never turn down Elladan's requests for a sparring match, especially when Elrohir would be on hand to freely yet good-naturedly tease the loser – especially when such turned out to be his twin. Alas, the Valar were not on Estel's side today, and he lost four of five bouts to his foster brother.

Somewhere in the darker recesses of his mind he was convinced that his only victory – coming at the very end – was gifted to him out of pity. He knew that the twins were keenly aware of his constant worries and self-doubts concerning his oft-cursed mortal heritage, and that they did all within their power to assure him that those thoughts were wholly unjustified – things like deliberately throwing sparring matches. He wondered if they knew that such things only caused his feelings of self-loathing to increase rather than abate when confronted by such pity, but in the end he banished those thoughts back into the depths from whence they came. After all, it wasn't like he could ever prove it...

He had just stepped into the hallway, closing his bedchamber doors behind him, when the inaudible distinction of Elven footfalls reached his senses. He turned to see Lord Erestor approaching.

"Good afternoon, my lord," Estel greeted with a smile. He would not allow his own morbid thoughts to intrude on what otherwise had truly been an exceptional day.

"Good afternoon, Estel," the seneschal greeted in turn, his face as stoic and unreadable as ever. However, something in Erestor's bearing filled Estel with sudden unease. His gaze searched Erestor's questioningly, but as usual, nothing was betrayed.

"Your father wishes to see you," Erestor said in answer to the silent question. "You will find him in his study."

Estel took a moment to mentally review every last thing he had said and done in the three short days that he'd been home, searching for something that might have caused offense, or at the very least, anything that would warrant addressing. His troubled mind came up with nothing concrete and that only served to increase the number of butterflies that had suddenly taken residence in his stomach.

"Did he say as to what purpose?" he asked out of this worry.

Erestor's face remained infuriatingly blank, all thought and emotion repressed, and Estel privately envied his old mentor's gift at such things.

"I am but the humble messenger," Erestor responded, giving nothing away. They both knew that this wasn't an answer to the question – and that if it was truly nothing to worry about, then Erestor would have said something more reassuring.

Estel smiled through his worried resignation. "Then I suppose I am left to discover my father's mind for myself." He turned to leave, making his way down the corridor to the heavy set of oaken doors that blocked the entrance to Lord Elrond's study – blocked it only because they were closed, and Elrond only closed the doors when he wished not to be disturbed.

The butterflies increased exponentially.

Erestor stood still, watching the boy at a distance as he hesitantly knocked and then gained entrance. He did not envy Estel – as always he would be named first in the Elven hearts of Imladris – what was about to happen. Alas that he drew the short straw and was sent to fetch his lord's youngest son, Glorfindel escaping to parts unknown so as not to have to be anywhere near what was about to transpire. In the deafening silence that was now the empty corridor, Erestor couldn't help but be reminded of the last time Estel had to knock to gain admittance after being called before Lord Elrond.

_Was it only six years ago that he learned the truth about his heritage?_

Suddenly Erestor realized that he was indeed standing in the middle of a deserted hallway, and with a soft sigh and an errant prayer to the Valar, so made his way in the opposite direction and descended the stairs, seeking solace from his own troubled thoughts.

Estel, meanwhile, was standing in his foster father's study. He had entered barely two steps, unsure of what to say or do for he knew not the nature of this meeting. His father had yet to acknowledge him after having granted his leave to enter.

Lord Elrond was leaning against the glass doors to his balcony, his unseeing gaze fixed over Imladris while his thoughts stooped beneath the weight of what he was about to do. He could sense that this stagnation was awkward for his son, to say the least, but he couldn't quite bring himself to turn around and begin the conversation.

"Close the doors," he bade at last, his voice even and unreadable.

Wordlessly Estel complied, and then stepped forward to where he stood before, still not daring to intrude further, his anxiety only increasing.

Finally, Lord Elrond gathered the courage to begin the conversation that sadly needed to happen. However, he still didn't have the courage to turn around and face his son. "Aragorn," he began. The name fell as benediction and its recipient stiffened at its use.

"Six years ago I revealed that name to you," Elrond continued, finally turning around. "Along with the weight of everything it carries."

Estel nodded, unsure of where this was going. "I am Aragorn the second, son of Arathorn the second, heir of Isildur, heir to the throne of Gondor, the surviving realm of Westernesse in exile." He recited the litany as a child might in front of the classroom.

Elrond nodded in agreement. "That you are, for that is the destiny into which you were born."

Estel suddenly looked away, wanting to talk about _anything_ but his so-called destiny. He opened his mouth to protest, but then Elrond cut him off.

"But that is not your only name."

Estel dutifully looked up.

"To protect your identity from servants of the Enemy, I gave you the name Estel Elrondion, and although you did not accept me at first…" Elrond paused, collecting himself and forcing his speech to remain even and untouched by the swirl of emotions caught in the currents of his thoughts.

"You became my father," Estel finished for him. "The only father that I have ever known." _And first in that place in my heart_.

Elrond nodded. "You are my son, Estel," he asserted, and the man in question relaxed slightly at hearing his childhood name on his father's lips at last. "A son in everything save birth." And that statement was exactly correct, for the blood of Isildur had come down to him through the blood of Elros, Elrond's twin brother who had chosen mortality and so founded the line of Kings. The connection might be thin, but he and Elrond were bound by blood nonetheless.

"And therefore," Elrond continued, preparing himself for what he was about to say, "I do not need any Elven trait or gift of foresight to see plainly what is in your heart, though try as you might to conceal it from me."

Estel suddenly tensed again, wondering what secrets his soul had been laying forth. "_Ada_?" he asked, almost fearfully.

"Your demeanor betrays you, my son," said Elrond, his lips barely showing a smile. "I know that you are in love."

For Elrond that smile held many meanings. It contained paternal amusement for the fact that Estel had thought to hide his emotions, as well as a more humbling bemusement for the fact those efforts had nearly worked. If Galadriel hadn't revealed the truth to him then surely Elrond might never have known. Yet beside the light-heartedness, the moment was also tinged with sadness and regret. After all, his youngest son and only daughter were madly in love, and the spiraling, far-reaching consequences of such a turn of events were… well, enough to warrant an emergency meeting of those members of the Wise who knew of Estel's birthright.

Said consequences, of course, were strictly objective and had nothing to do with the turmoil and heartache now weighing on the father of the two in question.

Meanwhile for Estel, time seemed to stand still as every reassurance and protective barrier he had forged suddenly came crashing down around his ears. He opened his mouth to speak but his throat constricted against all sound. After uselessly dropping and replacing his jaw several times he gave up the effort and so met his father's gaze, and while Estel himself learned nothing in those midnight depths, Elrond plainly saw a chilling dread gleaming in the silver light of his youngest's eyes.

"You should not feel ashamed, my son," said Elrond, that smile still lingering about his lips though it took all of his willpower to maintain it. "Arwen was even less successful at concealing her feelings."

Estel abruptly shut his eyes, reeling from the bitter blow, from the sensation that the ground had suddenly disappeared beneath his feet and sent him tumbling down into the darkest depths. He found he couldn't think – that all capacity for rational thought had flooded out of him on a rushing tide of emotional vertigo – though of course that mattered little given how he'd previously lost the ability to speak his mind.

Elrond, meanwhile, wasn't faring much better. His great mind – the mind of one of the Wise (an irony in and of itself another reason for the smile) – still could not fathom how such a thing could have occurred. How could his daughter, his beloved Arwen, fall in love with a mortal man? And how could that man be none other than his own foster son? His instinct was to scoff at the incestuous nature of such a pairing until his ever-wise mind (_ha_!) reminded him that Estel hadn't even met Arwen until he was already into his adulthood. And, of course, that Estel was not his by birth.

Now he stood, here in his study across from his youngest son, having probably the most difficult conversation in all his long years since it was decided that Celebrían would sail over the sea. He had taken council with Galadriel and Celeborn, with help from Glorfindel and Mithrandir. He had discussed the matter with his twins (whose own mixed feelings provided no help) and with Estel's own mother (who's ability to see from the parent's point of view made her hesitant to reveal her true opinions). All conversations, all arguments, all debates and all attempts at foresight had led up to this moment: this one, crucial, conversation. And it was to begin with Elrond informing his youngest son that he was well aware of what feelings the man was harboring in his heart.

The conversation that Elrond was using all of his mighty willpower to keep detached and reasonable. His emotions on the matter he would deal with, but right now it was Estel's emotions that mattered more.

_Estel's emotions..._

Elrond's brief foray back into his own thoughts was violently subverted when he noticed the ghostly pallor of his son's complexion, along with the slight blue tinge forming on his lips.

"_Ionin_?" he asked, abruptly concerned.

Apparently Estel had also been bereft of the ability to breathe, but his father's voice snapped him out of whatever trance he'd stumbled into. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his body shaking slightly with small yet violent tremors, but his knees stubbornly refused to give way beneath him for Estel had vowed that he would not display his mortal weakness here.

Not here, not now, and surely not for this!

Slowly, painstakingly, he schooled his protesting muscles back under his command.

When at last he was able to look his father in the eye he was met with a concerned stare. Estel's face was still hauntingly pale, and his eyes held too many emotions vying at for supremacy that Elrond wasn't sure which was currently holding sway.

"I knew that you would not approve," Estel said at last, and with such despair in his voice that Elrond's unspoken question was well answered.

Elrond sighed, though inaudibly, knowing that there were more words to follow. He couldn't just take the easy way out and say 'you're right, I do not approve.' That was not the way and he knew it. So much was riding on the outcome of this conversation.

To look at it plainly, if his daughter chose Estel then she would therefore choose a mortal life, as was the doom of choice that befell all Half-Elven. She could not remain one of the firstborn in the eyes of the Valar and sail into the west with her mortal husband, as his own paternal grandparents had, for _Aragorn _was apparently not nearly as important as his ancestor Tuor in the eyes of the Valar (and the part of Elrond that was father first screamed at them in rage, for surely the heir of Elendil and his great destiny must be of some import). No, Aragorn would not be able to sail west in his old age, and that thought had plagued Elrond ever since he dared to count Estel his son, for one cruel day he would be forever parted from his youngest.

Yet however bitter that reality, it was one that Elrond had known he should ever and always be prepared for. This new twist of fate that he could lose his daughter to mortality as well was completely unexpected – and totally crushing. He did not even want to think about an eternity parted from his Arwen, for even in the bliss of the Undying Lands, how could he be completely happy knowing what he was forced to leave behind? In the uttermost west his soul may one day be able to accept the loss of Estel as it may one day accept the loss of Elros, but to lose Arwen? That should never be allowed!

And how could he greet his beloved Celebrían on the shores of Valinor only to inform her of their daughter's fate?

_My dear Celebrían… I could really use your wisdom and your council now._

On the tails of another sigh, Elrond turned around and once again fixed his gaze across all of Imladris. Though Estel couldn't see it, his father's face was drawn as if pained, for indeed he also felt the turmoil of these proceedings – and only too well. Elrond knew that even if Arwen chose to remain as one of the firstborn that she would perish of grief at her husband's loss, and that if the west was denied to Estel – as it most surely was – then doubtless his daughter would choose mortality so that in death they may be reunited and hence take that last journey beyond the circles of the world together. Ilúvatar's gift, or so it was called.

Alas, there was nothing that could make Elrond perceive it so, for tears were its only tangible evidence.

"Who am I, Estel?" he asked at last, his voice soft yet stern.

Estel blinked, not sure he had heard correctly. "Father?"

"Who am I?" Lord Elrond repeated, his infamous resolve crumbling so that the barest hints of resignation showed in his voice.

Estel bit his lip, unsure of how to answer. "You are Lord Elrond Peredhil," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Vice Regent to High King Gil-Galad and his herald on the field of battle; founder, ruler, and protector of Imladris, member of the White Council and counted as the greatest of the Wise." He finished the litany, not knowing if he said too much, too little, or even if what he had said was appropriate at all.

Elrond closed his eyes briefly against the sudden surge of memories, but then he easily suppressed them. He had so many names and titles, so many ways that he had been defined in the eyes of his peers and of the peerage – some more pleasant than others – but now was not the time to dwell on such things. Indeed, it was only the emotionality of the moment that succeeded in temporarily derailing his thoughts towards all that he had already lost.

Finally he nodded, his back still to his son. "I am those things," he said at last, his voice soft, unfathomable as only one the Eldar can be. "And if you know such," he continued as he turned around again only to see that confusion had replaced the despair in Estel's eyes, for better or worse. "Then you must also know who my daughter is."

Estel suddenly looked away, unwilling to stay held in his father's gaze. Elladan and Elrohir had always been his brothers, yet Arwen was never his sister. She was Elrond's daughter and belonged to the Peredhil House alone. She was not his to share in, in any sense of the word. He answered the question, still looking at the floor as the tears he stubbornly refused to let fall glistened in his eyes.

"She is Arwen Undómiel," he said, his voice a rough whisper thick with emotion, the least of all love. "Daughter of the heir of Turgon and of Thingol, and that of Lady Celebrían, herself daughter of Celeborn, Lord of Doriath, and of Galadriel, the Lady of Light. She is the Evenstar of her people, the likeness of her foremother Lúthien alive again on Arda."

Elrond nodded solemnly. "She is all those things, Arwen. Our royal maiden, the daughter of twilight."

Estel finally found his courage to look up once again. His gaze briefly met his father's, but then he quickly glanced away. Elrond was almost grateful for the fact, for he did not know if he himself would have been capable of maintaining eye contact.

What was about to happen… was destined to happen. That was the only reasoning that Elrond could not argue with. It had to have been destiny because it was love, and love was something that one could not change, force, or deny. Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn, Mithrandir, and even Círdan had agreed that Aragorn was destined to reclaim the throne of Gondor for it had to have been destiny that brought Gilraen and her young son to Imladris all those years ago, destiny that warmed every Elven heart towards the boy, destiny that allowed a child to restore the light and life to a haven that had been ever and eternally gray since her Lady sailed over the sea. Yes, Aragorn was destined to be fostered in Imladris, destined to be beloved of the elves and named for hope, and therefore _destined_ to be prepared for his eventual destiny: the final defeat of Sauron and the reclaiming of the throne of men.

And so it was destiny that allowed Aragorn and Arwen to fall in love, and Lord Elrond had no small role to play in that destiny. Therefore, his hands were tied in this seemingly small matter of who his children chose to marry. He could not encourage his son to strive for his destiny with one hand and deny destiny's very existence with the other. Such was the consensus of the council in Lothlórien: that this love must not be discouraged, for destiny must be embraced, as to deny it would be to welcome the final defeat of the free peoples of Middle-earth, and they are _destined_ for victory.

Yet all obligations aside, Elrond also knew in his heart of hearts that it was a father's prerogative to place his children's happiness above his own, and so in truth he knew that he could not deny Arwen this chance, even though the extent of his grief – was not to be thought of now. And he couldn't hate the man who would steal his daughter away from him for all the eternities until Arda Marred became Arda Healed, because that man was none other than his very own son. No, Elrond could not stop their love, even if it threatened to rend his soul in two and send the scattered parts of his fëa flying to the Halls of Mandos by the impetus of eventual grief.

Destiny was ever cruel to Elrond Peredhil.

And ever subservient to Her will, Elrond steeled himself to deliver the crux of this heart-wrenching conversation. Destiny, he hoped with bitter irreverence, had well better be paying attention.

"Arwen is destined to wed only one who holds equal stature to herself."

Estel looked up sharply then, his gaze fearfully questioning. However, Elrond did not speak more, for indeed he truly could not in that moment, and Estel slowly lowered his gaze again, his shoulders sagging slightly.

"And I am not so endowed," he said to the floor, pure anguish in his voice.

It nearly broke Elrond's heart as he regarded the way his son stood there, defeated and in such pain. He could not stand seeing any of his children hurt, and Estel's love for Arwen made him no less his son than one of the twins.

Even though his gift of foresight (or perhaps his paternal instincts) hinted that such a thought would most assuredly cross Estel's mind.

"No," he said at last, forcing his voice to remain steady and fully aware of the pain he was inflicting upon one so undeserving of it. After all, it was no crime to fall in love. "Estel of Imladris, Strider of the race of men, eventual Chieftain of the Dúnedain – is not."

Estel shut his eyes at the sting of his father's words. It was all he could do to keep the tears from falling freely.

"But Aragorn the second, son of Arathorn the second, heir of Elendil and King of The Reunited Kingdoms—"

Estel's head jerked up at that, his eyes bright with unshed tears. Elrond willfully held his gaze.

"Such a man _would_ be so endowed."

Estel couldn't fight it anymore. The tears spilled over at last, trailing down his cheeks and pooling slightly at his chin before departing for the floor. He shut his eyes against them but that did not staunch their flow, and he quickly turned his back. Having just been robbed of his dreams, he refused to offer up the last of his dignity to follow them.

And so it was that Estel missed the near breaking of his father's own façade. Elrond blinked his own tears away, his hands clenched into fists as though manually maintaining the grip on his emotions. He had just brought the final point home: in order for Estel to marry Arwen, he must first complete his destiny. However, the topic of his destiny had always been a sore subject ever since his son had learned of it. All privy to Estel's true identity knew that he wanted nothing to do with reclaiming the throne for he had no craving for power, and that even if he did, such would not be enough to overthrow his deepest fears of following in Isildur's footsteps of failure.

Elrond reassembled his mask and stepped forward, a hand outstretched and ready to be placed on his son's shoulder. He was painfully aware of the damage his statement had wrought on Estel's fragile psyche, but he then recoiled mid-reach as he sensed at the last minute that his touch was far from welcomed. Indeed if Estel had turned at that second he would have seen the unspeakable anguish in Elrond – a father's anguish, for not being able to comfort his youngest son.

But Estel did not turn, and so he did not see.

"_Uante nwalka, atar_," he said, voice tight, his sudden use of formal Quenya falling like a hammer strike onto the growing wedge between them.

"Estel…" Elrond breathed, stepping forward again.

Estel rounded on his heels now and faced his father. The tracks of his tears were still visible though they had stopped flowing. His misty eyes held despair, that was certain enough, but they also spoke of grave hurt and an almost raging anger in the face of which even Lord Elrond stepped back.

"Telling me that I am not good enough to love your daughter, _My Lord_," he began, his voice measured and even, as though he was riding every word, as though if he relaxed even slightly then surely they would all fly away from him, spiral up and out of his control. "That is one thing. Such taunts and… cruel jests… are quite another."

"Taunts?" Elrond questioned, genuinely surprised by his son's choice of words.

"The _adan_ knows his shortcomings," Estel went on as though Elrond hadn't spoken, the words gushing forth on a wave of righteous anger even as he fought to leash the emotion, to reel it in behind hastily constructed walls and leave only a backwash of bitterness to seep through the remaining cracks. "Of the many, throwing in his face the worst weakness of his race to prove your point was – unnecessary."

Elrond blinked in surprise, unable to keep from wondering exactly which emotions weren't being shown and what other word had just been replaced. "It is your destiny, Estel," he said, his voice soft with reassurance, even and in spite of how he felt the conversation had taken a sharp turn away from his expectations to veer headlong into uncharted waters. "Not weakness."

Estel seemed to flinch, just barely, a latent tremor too late in being called to heel. It told Elrond that his words had gone unheeded.

"My destiny…" Estel spoke almost absently, his fingers unconsciously toying with the ring on his finger. "My destiny," he continued, eyes flashing like Elven steel as he dared the fathomless depths of those of his foster father. "My destiny is to avoid at all costs succumbing to the same weakness that claimed my forebears. I will _not_ jeopardize all of Arda on a fool's errand to claim a birthright not worthy to be named in your brother's line. The blood of Númenor is cursed with _edain_ weakness – cursed by the Valar! Those of us who walk in exile are no better off than those who perished at sea, for with one hand we raised swords to defeat the Enemy, and with the other, took steps to ensure his very survival. I love your daughter, 'tis true, I cannot deny that fact any sooner than I can cease to draw breath. I know that I am not worthy of her love, nor of your permission for it. You did not need to remind me thusly, for I already held these truths within my heart."

Finally, _finally_, he paused, as though he'd suddenly run out of words if not the intention of slinging them, and it seemed to Elrond then that it had just now occurred to his youngest that he should better grapple with his tongue. Such blatant disrespect would not have been tolerated from the boy Estel had been, and even if it had been, said boy was rarely prone to talking out of turn. These were uncharted waters, most assuredly.

Because it was a man that stood before Lord Elrond now, and that man took everything he didn't – couldn't? wouldn't? – say, and translated it into one blistering glare that burned an ugly light, turning his silver eyes incandescent.

"Though, _Lord_, I am confused," Estel began again, words sharp enough to bleed even as his tone spoke of ceaseless pain – and the selfish, _childish_, desire to see some of it redirected. "Did you do so only to remind me of how gaining such approval is utterly impossible, or did you really think that I would put my own happiness above the very fate of Arda and embark on a quest that would certainly end in humiliation and certain death for myself, or worse for the fate of us all if by some miracle I _do_ succeed?"

Yet, Estel's bearing betrayed his very words. He had risen to his true height, unable to disguise the regality of his presence, and in his impudence he dared address his foster father not as a son but rather as a King in exile and in that moment, Elrond knew a sudden burst of foresight – _Behold! The High King revealed in all his wrath!_ – and the inconvenient vision wholly distracted him from the reality of his son, standing before him, still little more than a child – _his _child – now wounded soul-deep by one who had sworn to protect him always.

And so it was that Elrond missed how Estel's outburst shrank in volume as it progressed, how the anger bled from his expression as the tirade cooled down into plain speech until his voice was carved from ice and adamant, the same of which had transfigured his eyes. He missed his son so forcefully reining in his own hurts until not even their evidence was visible to him. No indeed, by the time Elrond returned to himself he saw in his son only a man ready to hold him accountable for nothing less than vicious slander, not a boy who now more than ever desperately needed to be reassured of his father's love.

He'd just seen the King of Gondor, lost sight of the boy for the man he would become.

His own fault, then. Everything that followed after.

For that man, Elrond found he had no answers. In truth, how could he? He could not deny that he had set Arwen on a pedestal before his son, for that was _exactly _what he had done. What the Wise had decreed he do. What had broken his heart to even contemplate doing, even for the fate of Middle-earth. Even for the vaguest promise of his children's happiness.

With shoulders squared and eyes wide opened, Elrond had given his blessing to Arwen's choice, had given his approval to Estel's most secret desire. He thought he'd been prepared for the pain of saying the words aloud, of laying down the stark and brutal definitions by which he was prepared to bury his only daughter. He'd known going in, and down to the very last soul-scraping inch, just how much this conversation would hurt him. But, Elrond had been prepared for the pain.

_Hadn't_ been prepared to be wrong.

It came like a bolt out of stormy skies, the sudden blinding insight, the one that told him _exactly _where he'd erred.

Estel had been well schooled in the arts of war – in the arts of _high command _– that he would never unduly risk another's life, that the very thought of doing so for any sort of personal gain would be an anathema to him. And so of course it followed that he would not willingly embark on his path to destiny, because he saw no good end to it for the peoples of Middle earth; no matter that the final prize would be a blessing on his love.

Indeed, invoking Arwen had only made things worse.

Little wonder, then, that Estel had taken great offense at the mere thought of such a thing, especially when it came from his very own father.

Ever had Lord Elrond known that it would be a long, hard road for the Heir of Elendil, if such a man was to unite the Free Peoples in the final victory over Sauron's evil. From the moment he first laid eyes upon Gilraen and Arathorn's child, they themselves both descendants of the Line of Kings, Elrond knew that this burden was to be Aragorn's alone. Then, after he'd claimed the boy for his own – so very selfish, that, and so very, very unrepented – he'd grown ever more aware of exactly _how_ alone his son would truly be along the journey. That had been the final card, the one that convinced him to set his daughter ahead of Estel like a polar star. The wise – they themselves who had learned command through wars fought long before Aragorn's _lineage _had begun – had looked into his children's hearts and seen—

Strategy.

_Incentive_.

A way to devise something tangible, something _desirable_ for his son to latch onto when he needed a reason to keep walking the path. And Elrond had agreed – may the Valar have mercy upon him.

Once the dust from this had settled, he seriously doubted that anyone else would bother.

While he had known that Estel would hardly react favorably to this conversation, never would he have expected this, for only now did Elrond see the true depths of his son's self-loathing. Oh he'd had inklings of a certain lack of confidence – to which he'd previously owed to the simple reality of the disparity between men and elves – but this? This was a pain far deeper and much more despairing than he had ever perceived from his Estel, for it was not the lack of faith in his abilities that Elrond had taken it for. No, this was a lack of faith in _himself_, as literally as the concept could be defined: in his blood, in his will, in his very fëa, and some distant corner of Elrond reeled – _how could he have not seen!_ – while the rest was struggling to keep up with all the implications of that which had just been so shockingly revealed to him.

Estel did not despair that he wasn't up to the task, tall order that it was: the final defeat of Sauron and the reunification of the Kingdoms of Westernesse. No, it wasn't the threat of defeat that scared his youngest son – and it _was _fear; Elrond knew that now. Not insecurity, though that was doubtless part of it, nor so very much a lack of confidence – or at least, not the same lack of confidence that Estel had always shown. This was _not _because he was a man and not an elf.

This was because that man was Isildur's heir, and in his eyes the space between defeat and victory – was as narrow as a band of gold.

"It is not within my power to forbid your love, Aragorn," Elrond spoke at last, for in the hazy whirlwind that was his thoughts right now that still remained the most salient point. Destiny either forged the will of Ilúvatar's children – or ripped them all asunder. Such was the bitter truth of this moment, now.

Had Estel not been so wrapped up in his own hurts right then he would have perceived the anguish in his father's eyes and its reflection in his voice. No, he heard nothing beyond the invocation of his given name, and it stung him most of all.

"Only its fruition," he answered sullenly, all anger spent.

Elrond blinked slowly, smothering a sigh. "I would give my daughter leave to marry none but the king of Gondor," he said at length, fully aware – though perhaps for the very first time – of just what the declaration would do to his youngest son. Yet there was nothing for it, no other recourse left to him. The wise had spoken. It was all on his shoulders, now. Estel had to be made to understand that in this matter Elrond was resolute, that there could be no half-measures, no quarter given. If Estel could bring himself to face that unshakable truth—

The rest would surely follow after.

Estel's gaze met his father's then, and Elrond was surprised to see the complete lack of tears held within those silvery depths. Indeed, all traces of emotion had fled. There was another pregnant pause before his son found the will to speak.

"If that is your decision, My Lord, then being thus made aware of it, if there is nothing else, I now humbly take my leave of you." And with a curt bow Estel turned on his heels and fled, throwing the doors open quite more violently than necessary and stalking swiftly down the corridor – in the opposite direction of his room.

Elrond stood staring after him for a long moment before moving back behind his desk and crumpling down into the chair, head falling into hands as he tried to wrap his mind around what in endless Mandos had just happened.

* * *

Estel ran out of the Last Homely House without any particular direction in mind. All he could think of was that he had to get away, _far _away, and as fast as he possibly could.

He finally stopped running when he made it to the Bruinen. From there he decided to turn north. There were a few caves he knew of – dwarves would stay in them on their passages between Erebor and the Ered Luin. He needed to rest from his escape and to – brood – on the cacophony of though currently swirling in his mind.

Estel was fortunate in that the caves were empty. There was a nice stack of firewood inside one of them, which he gladly made use of. Soon he was seated on a surprisingly comfortable stone bench (or perhaps not surprising given the ones who'd likely carved it) in front of a roaring fire. The air wasn't too terribly cold, and the fire warmed the stone and made the atmosphere surprisingly comfortable.

He sat for much of the afternoon, dwelling on that conversation with his – with _Lord Elrond_. The mental qualifier made him choke back a sob.

When he and Arwen pledged their troth they had wisely decided to keep their love secret for a time; secret until they could muster the courage to tell their family. Alas, that effort had been in vain. Elrond knew the truth now, most likely learned from Lady Galadriel, for in hindsight Estel realized the futility of asking Arwen to conceal something of that magnitude from her grandmother. This of course meant that Celeborn knew as well, and therefore most likely much of Lórien. Then of course if Elrond knew, so too must Elladan and Elrohir – Erestor included, given their encounter in the hallway. And Glorfindel had been especially nice to him lately. Following on, the twins must have told Legolas, who probably told his father and therefore all of Mirkwood probably knew. Aside from the dwarves who erected these caves, and the hobbits of the Shire that his rangers were currently guarding, there probably wasn't a soul in all the northern realms of Arda that _didn't_ know of his love for the Evenstar.

With a snort, Estel acknowledged the possibility that these dwarves, Durin's folk and friendly with the Noldor, probably overheard something in the course of trade and then blabbed about it along their travels through the Shire. Such would be his luck these days.

Estel drew his knees up and wrapped his arms protectively about them. He suddenly felt very lonely out here in the wilds, having run away from the only home he'd ever known. He wanted nothing more than to go crawling back and beg forgiveness, to curl into a ball on his ada's lap as he used to as a child when the nightmares became too much for him to bear. _This _nightmare was definitely the worst he'd ever faced, and he was still waiting to awaken from it.

Lord Elrond knew of his love for Arwen, and just as predicted, did not approve. Estel had expected as much. Indeed, his silence on the matter was rooted in the fear of it. How could Lord Elrond look favorably upon the _adan_ who offered the Evenstar the gift of mortality? Estel shook his head at the audacity. Elves weren't meant to fall in love with men. It just… wasn't done. The first age was long over; there were no worthy edain anymore. His race had fallen. There were none of his kind now who could ever hope to equal those privileged few – his forefathers – who rose above the weaknesses of their kind to win such favor from the firstborn.

He was not Beren, who defied and humiliated Morgoth. Nor was he Tuor, beloved messenger of Ulmo. He was Aragorn, heir of Isildur, the fallen king who failed to destroy Sauron, and the eventual leader of the Dúnedain, the ragged and diminished remnant of a weaker kingdom. He had no right to fall in love with Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar, descendant of Elven Kings.

And he was not worthy of her love in return.

Estel could not deny the shame he felt. All he could think was that, if only he were an elf…

But no, he was edain. And unworthy. Take an elf and find their opposite – that was his race.

That was him.

Forever and always reminded of it by the simple fact of his upbringing. Oh, those were some painful memories: of never being fast enough, or strong enough, or silent enough, or agile enough. Of taking ill from playing in the rain and sinking into the mud and the snow, of being different, of being _defined _by his differences.

If they had made fun of him as a child, perhaps this would not be so. Perhaps instead of self-loathing he would feel defiance, would laugh at those that dared to laugh at him, would revel in his uniqueness.

Only, they never laughed. They never made fun. No, instead they waited for him to catch up, purposely conceded games and races to him, made sure he bundled up for the cold and took warm baths each night… sat up with him when he was ill, over-worried at his injuries… placated him with _you are not an elf, but that does not matter_ _to us_. He was not their equal. He knew it, and more importantly they knew it, and they acted accordingly.

He was mortal, and he hated it. He hated the inadequacy and the vulnerability. He hated that his family swore up and down that his mortality didn't matter to them, when in fact, it mattered most of all.

Yet now he'd gone and done the unforgivable, something to which they could not say _you are not an elf, but that does not matter_ _to us_. He was not an elf, and that made all the difference in the world, for the fulfillment of his love would take Arwen beyond the circles of the world, denying her the immortality that was hers to claim. How could any elf forgive the edain for denying them their beloved Evenstar? How could any elf love the man who condemned one of their kin to mortality and death?

And what of his Elven family? They who had already lost so much? Long had he been told that Estel was named not only for the hope of men, but for the hope of elves as well.

Now look at what such hope had wrought.

In his weakness, he had confessed his love to Arwen. In his selfishness, he had allowed that small spark to grow into a flame. In his arrogance, he did not heed the dangers of such acts – if ever he realized they were even there at all.

Shortsighted, foolish, inconsiderate, _weak_.

Isildur's heir, in name and deed.

Alone in the gathering dark, by the flickering light of a dying fire, Estel wrapped his arms about himself all the tighter, and wept bitterly for his losses.

* * *

When he finally returned to himself, he noticed with chagrin that the sun was beginning to set in the western sky.

Dinner would be served soon.

Estel chuckled ruefully at the thought of the conversations that were likely at _that _particular meal as he kicked dirt onto the fire to snuff its dying embers. As tempting as it was, he couldn't live in caves forever.

Not within the boundaries of Imladris, anyway.

Once his emotions had finally calmed, Estel had worked out a plan. He couldn't remain here, of that he was certain. Having been beloved of elves for all his life, he didn't want to have to see the condemnation in their eyes, nor hear the echoes of his betrayal in the song of their voices. Knowing that he'd failed those whose opinions he valued above all else was one thing, but being constantly confronted with harsh reminders of that knowledge would be entirely too much.

Of course, that was adhering to the assumption that he would even still be welcomed in Imladris anymore.

Whatever else, Estel knew that he couldn't live in the company of his fa– of _Lord Elrond's_ rejection. No, hearing of it once was more than enough for one lifetime, _le hannon_. Best to just slip away unnoticed, and to pray that they would eventually remember him for who he was and not what he had tried to become. As the boy they had taken in and loved, and who had loved them freely in return. Not as the adan who'd dared corrupt their Evenstar.

Not being able to remain in Imladris, Estel had to discern a place where he _could_ go. He couldn't stay with the rangers – seeing his brothers so often, and all the elves the Dúnedain so often worked with, working alongside them until they returned to a home that he could no longer claim? No. That would be _worse _than staying on. It would most assuredly be worse.

Though, he would have to alert Bowen that he would be taking a leave of absence. Perhaps he could request an assignment very, very far away?

But if not Imladris, nor with the rangers, then where? Surely not Lothlórien, for even if the Lord and Lady welcomed him – and that itself would be a miracle – to spend his days in idle study, so near to his beloved Arwen, where he would be reminded every day of how that which he desired most was never to be his? Oh no. Not even if he meant to punish himself for all the wrong that he had done. An act of contrition meant nothing if it broke him in the offering. Lothlórien was out of the question.

His next immediate thought was to seek out Legolas in Mirkwood, for surely his best friend would offer him shelter for a time? And he could be of use! Mirkwood was always grateful to any and all who helped them fight the Shadow within!

But then he remembered King Thranduil. The crown of Mirkwood was not much enamored with the edain. True he was grateful for the aid of the rangers, who could go places and do things in the world of men that his own warriors could not – and he was grudgingly accepting of his son's friendship with Lord Elrond's mortal foster son – but if Thranduil knew of his love for Arwen (which in Estel's mind he most likely did), he knew that the King would have no qualms in sending him packing. In fact, a full-out banishment from the Woodland Realm would probably ensue, and Estel really didn't want to face that. He didn't want _Legolas _to face it.

By the time Estel had talked himself out of Mirkwood he had basically given up on the idea of ever living comfortably amongst elves again. Oh, he probably could find welcome among Círdan's people, as his kin had done of old, and he was fair certain that the old mariner was rather fond of him. But, a welcome was different from a _loving_ welcome, and Estel was sure that he would never find that amongst the elves again, not even from those in Lindon, ghost-town that the city had become, for none was more beloved of those who still looked fondly on the Elder Days than she who was a living anachronism of all that they had lost. To them, Estel would forever be the one to temp their Evenstar into the choice of Lúthien, and he would not be so cruel as to inflict his presence upon them.

No, it was better to sever all ties with the firstborn here and now.

He did not have the strength to endure that type of rejection a second time.

Not being able to live amongst elves anymore was a crushing blow, as Estel had never felt at home among his own kind. Always too much of an elf to fit in with the edain, and too much of an adan to fit in amongst elves.

Even though the elves had loved him.

With their world denied him, Estel had no choice but to turn his thoughts towards the realms of men. Somewhere, somehow, amongst his own kind he would have to make due.

Yet, he couldn't stay up north, either. The northern cities of edain had too many dealings with both elves and rangers – he would be too easily recognized. Oh not by name, but by bearing. By speech. Men of the North feared the rangers, for their skills and for their secrecy, and Estel had been conditioned too long – trained too well – to ever really blend in among them. To be a pariah to elves was one thing, but to live as an outcast among his own kind as well? Not exactly the most favorable option.

And certainly not the only one.

He could always head south. Find a city of Rohan, or of Gondor perhaps. Maybe even to the princedom of Dol Amroth, where the people had more Elven qualities about them than any other. The look of Westernesse was not uncommon, and he'd heard tell that a man skilled with a blade was always welcomed. Not necessarily _trusted_, but welcomed nonetheless.

Estel – _pragmatist _– decided he could live with that. Given the way he tended to repay the trusts given to him, he'd even go so far as to deem that such was probably the safer option anyway.

And so he had decided. South it would be.

Vague, but it would due for now. There would many, many miles between _south_ and any formal choice of destination. And the prospect of so much solitude was somehow not as daunting as it might have been.

His mind set on his departure, Estel made ready to leave the isolated safety of the caves. If he was indeed to travel as far as he intended, he would need provisions.

And a horse.

He crept back into the heart of Imladris with the same stealth he employed in his escape. He knew that, if they had the mind to look, his brothers would pick up his trail eventually. He just didn't have to make it easy for them.

Estel made it back to within sight of the Last Homely House without much trouble. He avoided the guards and didn't so much as crack a twig to leave a sign of his passing. However, now was the difficult part. How to get into and out of his room – with sufficient supplies – and down to the stables to his mare, all unnoticed by the elves? Estel sighed, mentally preparing himself.

First things first.

He needed to get to his room.

Estel stealthily made his way around to the side of the Last Homely House. There he found the tree that grew beside his balcony. It was an ancient oak, tall and broad and quite capable of handling the clumsy and awkward weight of an adan ranger. Estel ascended and jumped from limb to balcony with minimal effort born from years of practice.

Once inside, Estel opened his wardrobe and removed several traveling packs. He managed to stuff three under-tunics, two outer tunics, one pair of leggings, and five pairs of stockings into the first one. The second he filled from his private store of herbs and bandages, though he noted with chagrin that he hadn't yet gotten around to replenishing these particular supplies. He had plenty of bandages, but was running low on athelas. Unfortunately, he couldn't chance a stop off in the healing wing. He would just have to hope to find some along the way.

Into his last pack he balled an extra cloak, along with fabric thread and a heavy needle, extra leather thongs (for repairing his tack), and a spare broach. There was still some room left in the pack, but Estel decided not to use it for necessities. Instead, he grabbed a small but intricately carved spider from his mantle, once a birthday present from Legolas. He wanted to take something to remind him of his family – of _all _his family.

Something from every last soul that he had dared to love.

From his nightstand drawer he removed a small leather-bound booklet. This was begun by Arathorn and at first had contained a few sketches of his mother. When Gilraen departed Imladris, she left the unfinished book with Elrond, leaving him the burden of filling its pages. Elrohir had since sketched Arathorn's face quite well from memory on one page so that Aragorn could know his mortal father's image, and others have added even more renditions here and there at Estel's request: there was one of each twin separately, and then another of them together; there were several of Lord Elrond and of Glorfindel, and one of Erestor (for the seneschal had rendered most of the other drawings). He had even, with Elrond's permission, added one of Celebrían, for Estel had always believed that he had four parents. He just hadn't had the chance to know two of them.

There was a sketch of Arwen, too, though a very poor likeness (in Estel's opinion, given his love for the real thing), drawn many years ago so that the child he'd been might know his sister's face. Then there was one of Celeborn and Galadriel together, standing proud and regal. Later on, his grandfather had sketched Eärendil and Elwing from memory, as Glorfindel did for Tuor and Idril, as Elrond did for Gil-Galad and Elros, and as Erestor did for Círdan and Mithrandir. The final page contained a sketch of himself and Legolas, walking arms-about-shoulders, added four years ago.

This was Estel's book of family. Everyone he had ever loved, everyone that had ever dared say they loved him in return, and even a few of his ancestors and distant relations whom he'd never met. He placed the sketchbook in his pack and then collapsed down onto his bed atop the covers, choking on bitter tears at the realization that he would never lay eyes on any of those beloved faces ever again.

Yet the spell did not last long. Estel knew that his time was running short. The household had to be nearly through with dinner by now, and the meal would be even shorter for those who might go seeking him.

(He would come to wonder, across the years that followed, whether or not he was aware of just how unsound his thinking was_, _this awful, awful day. It would become yet another question – one of entirely too many – that he never examined all that closely. There was no answer that wouldn't hurt, or even one that would make any kind of difference anyway.)

And so Estel closed his final pack, and checked his boot to be sure that his trusty dagger was secure. It had been a gift from Glorfindel on the day he rode out of Imladris with the rangers for the very first time, an heirloom of the house of Hador carried into the West by Tuor and now returned to its rightful hand.

Or so the Vanya claimed.

Then Estel strapped his sword to his belt, slung his bow and quiver over his back, and headed out the door.

He had one final stop to make.

Silently he crept into the conjoined rooms the twins shared. His Elven brothers – oh how he would miss them!

He found their quivers where they usually left them and removed an arrow from each. These he slipped into his own quiver, and replaced those that he had taken with an arrow of his own. Elven warriors always had unique bow markings, so that spent arrows could be identified by owner. Moreover, Imladris had its own style of arrow, which differed from the Mirkwood style, the Galadhrim style, and the Dúnedain style. Rest assured, there were no identical arrows from different individuals in all of the northern realms of elves and edain. Estel hoped that in this way, he would always have a piece of his brothers, just as they would always have a piece of him (to do with as they were wont).

Finally Estel was ready to depart Imladris forever. He crept back into his room and picked up his packs and water skins from where he'd left them and made ready to exit via the tree. There he stopped abruptly, struck with a sudden thought. He slipped the ring of Barahir off his finger and placed it on the nightstand. He was not Aragorn, son of Arathorn, for that child died in the orc attack and he would not belittle his mother's sacrifice by denouncing that claim. Thus, as Estel had more than outlasted his welcome here, it was now Strider of the Dúnedain, an ordinary ranger and not worthy of such adornments, who left the ring for the keeping of Lord Elrond, so that it might rejoin the heirlooms of Númenor.

He descended the tree with only a slight bit more noise and difficulty than whence he'd ascended. This left him standing in the courtyard of Imladris – at the complete opposite end of the grounds from the stables. He hoped that everyone was still at dinner so he could make the trek unnoticed.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, as the case may be) he made it all the way to the stables without being seen or heard by anyone. A few of the horses nickered softly when he entered, but that was all the greetings he got. Not a groomsman in sight.

Whispering soothing things to his mare in Sindarin, he slowly opened the stall door. His mare, a beautiful dappled gray named _Ulmafan_, spared him a passing glance before returning to her own supper. Somehow, she sensed that this meal might be her last taste of oats for a goodly while.

Only with a fair bit of coaxing did her master persuade her to leave her stall. She was now standing patiently in the aisle while he fetched her tack. Fortunately he acquired Ulmafan before she was broken – it wasn't in the habit of Elven horses to suddenly agree to accept saddle and bridle. However, Ulmafan never got the chance to know better. She'd served as Estel's steed for the entirety of her short life.

He had her tacked in record time, and secured his gear to the saddle. Lastly he grabbed a few carrots and apples for his mare (or perhaps for himself) for the road, and led her out of the stables. Then, with one last, longing look back at the Last Homely House East of the Sea, the youngest son of Elrond began his long journey away from the only home he'd ever known.

Ulmafan was bade to travel as swiftly and as silently as she possibly could whilst also avoiding the paths of the guard patrols, and she did not stop until they reached the ford of the Bruinen. There Estel replenished his water skins, but then he hesitated at the crossing despite the dangers of being caught by one of the river patrols. Time stretched out in awkward heartbeats and Ulmafan nudged his arm, yet still he tarried. Somehow he sensed that, in crossing this border, there would no going back. That by leaving the bounds of Imladris, here and now, as a thief in the night… that metaphor held all the more meaning.

Estel hovered on the brink, gazing off into the surrounding woods and attempting to envision the buildings beyond, where his family was currently eating dinner, hopefully happily. Hopefully they would be able to move on from this, as he had convinced himself that he could so move on. Hopefully, they could put the past to rest… and the present… and only have fond memories in their hearts for the young, foolish adan who tried to reach far, far above his humble station.

When he finally did remount his mare, he urged her immediately into a fierce gallop, and they sped off in a vaguely northwards direction, bound for the ranger camp and his final duty to his kin. After that, his true journey could begin.

All the while, not once did he look over his shoulder, and he staunchly forbade himself the luxury of a single tear.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Atar_: father (Quenya)  
_Ada_: dad (informal, Sindarin)  
_Arda_: the world  
_Ion_: son… therefore: _ionin_: my son  
_Adan/Edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race  
_Elrondion_: son of Elrond  
_Fëa_: spirit  
_Le hannon_: thank you  
_Uante nwalka_: needlessly cruel (Quenya)  
_Ulmafan_: raincloud

* * *

**Notes:**

-_ On Aragorn's mother_: Tolkien states that Gilraen brought Aragorn to Imladris for protection after Arathorn's death. I have taken this to mean that Mordor was searching for Isildur's heir and found him (Arathorn) and killed him. It is my personal canon that Gilraen brought Aragorn to Imladris, where she stayed for a time before leaving Aragorn in the care of Elrond and returning to the rangers, where she made it a very public fact that she was the widow of Isildur's heir and that both her husband and young son had perished. This allowed _Estel_ to grow up in relative safety and anonymity (and allows for the semi-canonical assumption that Elrond is Aragorn's foster father). To sum up: for the intents of this story Gilraen is very much alive, but for her son's protection she was essentially a non-factor in Aragorn's childhood. Now that Aragorn is a ranger, he has been in contact with his mother, and they are trying to pursue some sort of mother/son relationship without being obvious and attracting attention.

- _On Aragorn and Arwen_: Canon states that Aragorn and Arwen meet on Cerin Amroth in the year T.A. 2980. However, the specific wording in _The Tale of Years_ states that "Aragorn enters Lórien, and there meets _again_ Arwen Undomiel" [emphasis mine]. This is because they first met in T.A. 2951, six years before Aragorn goes south, and the same year that he joined the rangers and learned of his heritage. I am taking the stance that Aragorn and Arwen were in love prior to the encounter in 2980. Specifically, Aragorn loved Arwen from the moment he saw her, and some time later she discovered that she shared his feelings. The troth-pledging on Cerin Amroth will take place as described by Tolkien, though here it will act as more of a reaffirmation.

- _On speaking Elven_: Unless otherwise stated, all conversations in Elven realms take place entirely in Sindarin. The Elven words added to the text here are meant only for emphasis.


	3. Ch 2: Seeking

**Chapter 2: Seeking

* * *

**

Elrond did not know how long he had stayed at his desk, torn between wanting to chase after his youngest son and somehow right the wrongs caused by Aragorn's assumptions – and the knowledge that he would only make things worse by doing so. He knew from experience that, in his present state, Aragorn would not be in the mood to listen to anyone, even and especially his family. There was nothing Elrond could do for his son at present, and for a father, that was the hardest reality of all.

Elrond was finally brought out of his reverie by a double set of approaching footfalls. No child was ever truly silent when slinking about their father's house, and thus it was that he knew his twins were presently converging on his study, despite the fact that he'd never actually heard their movements.

"Good evening, father," Elladan greeted cheerfully as he strode in through the opened doors.

Elrond blinked. "Evening?" His gaze slid through the balcony door, out across the vast expanse of sun-kissed greenery now scored by long shadows arcing across his valley, and so answered his own question.

Which of course meant that he'd spent entirely too long with only his own dark thoughts for company. That wasn't good.

Brooding ill became him.

With effort he dragged his mind back around to Elladan, who was asking, "have you seen Estel?"

"He was supposed to help us plan the next hunt," Elrohir added as he strolled up beside his twin. "But how can he have any say in it if we cannot find him? He knows we leave tomorrow morning."

His sons wore identical frowns set below identically creased brows, arms folded, postures stiff. They were frustrated and impatient and curious and – so obviously without any inklings as to what had transpired earlier. As it had been Aragorn who'd left the study doors standing wide after his all-too-swift departure, Elrond really saw no reason why they should, but that just made the coming conversation all the harder.

Elrond sighed, collecting his thoughts even as he pinched the bridge of his nose against an oncoming pain. "He is not in the house?"

"No," said Elladan. "Nor in the gardens that we can find."

Elrond sighed again, finger and thumb briefly reaching up to rub at his temples as he contemplated the implications of that statement. "Even the best trackers are hard pressed to find Estel when he does not wish to be found."

Elladan blinked in surprise. "Why wouldn't he wish to be found?"

Elrond just stared at his sons, for he truly did not know how to answer Elladan's question. To admit to his twins that he had failed their brother so spectacularly—

No. To say the words would be to make it real, and Elrond wasn't ready for that yet. He doubted that he'd ever be ready.

He'd also doubted that he'd ever be ready for marriage, for fatherhood, for leadership. If he'd ever been one to wait until he'd felt _ready _for something, he'd likely have stayed sitting by that waterfall in Andram until all of Beleriand broke apart beneath him.

Not that it mattered now.

"You told him, didn't you," Elrohir concluded quietly. His sons had always been a lot more perceptive than they let on.

Elrond tipped his head, nodding once, and felt the weight of his silence shift around him as his twins digested this new information.

It did not surprise him when Elladan spoke first.

"I gather that he did not take it well."

"No," Elrond admitted with a slight, ironic twist of his lips. "He most certainly did not."

"But why?" Elladan asked. "I would have thought that learning that he… has a chance… would have been good for him."

Elrohir shot his brother a sidelong glance. While they knew of their siblings' feelings towards each other, and genuinely wanted them both to be happy, it was still rather difficult for them to accept that their sister and foster brother were madly in love.

"I believe we all grievously erred in that respect," Elrond admitted. The shock of just how much he hadn't seen would surely follow him until the end of Arda.

"He still fears his destiny," Elrohir announced to no one, and Elladan turned sharply to regard his brother.

"I would have thought that, if his love for Arwen were true, then he would be willing to do anything…"

The disgust in Elladan's voice was plain. Clearly he thought that Aragorn didn't love his sister enough if he wasn't willing to take the necessary steps to ensure their life together. That therefore made his foster brother unworthy of her love, which Elladan knew to be wholly unconditional.

Not that Elladan loved Estel any less for it, of course. Nothing could ever truly tarnish his affections for his youngest brother.

Elrond found himself laughing aloud at his son's statement, the sound sharp and bitter and there and then gone again. It seemed that they had all fallen prey to the same traps, though the revelation that his twins were equally guilty of his own presumptions regarding Estel was in no way comforting. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"You misjudge," he said before either twin could ask. "Much like we all did. Rather than rejoicing in the possibility, instead Estel despaired in it. He said that he would not risk the fate of Middle-earth with his weaknesses for personal gain, even if that gain is Arwen's hand."

Both twins were suitably stunned. Whoever said that misery loved company had obviously never been a parent.

"That was not all he said..." Elrohir ventured, suddenly thoughtful.

Elrond sighed and shook his head, dropping his gaze to his desk and bracing one hand across his brow. It felt like betraying a confidence, repeating Estel's words to his brothers; words that he knew his son would come to regret once he thought back on them in a clearer light. It certainly wasn't a kindness.

To any of them.

"He thought that I should know that he would never make such a choice, and that I was therefore throwing his supposed weaknesses in his face as repayment for the affront he presumed I took to the knowledge of his love for Arwen."

Twin expressions of shocked alarm.

"What else, father?" Elrohir prompted, obviously determined to stop at nothing short of the full truth, no matter how difficult it would be to hear.

Never let it be said that his sons preferred things to be easy.

Elrond took a moment to study them; his twins. So alike.

So different.

Elladan, stance relaxed but expression guarded, so obviously curious, not-so-obviously wary. He knew that something was wrong but was at a loss to give it name. Then Elrohir, face taut, eyes hooded, shoulders braced against enemy fire. Part of Elrond did not want to know what the younger twin was expecting to hear, and he wondered which was worse. To be blindsided, or to see the blow incoming.

"He spoke these thoughts first," Elrond began, "but they were merely a single option. He asked me if that were true, or if…" here he paused, trying to find a way to regurgitate the words without tasting such bile in his throat. "Or if I truly did not know, and therefore thought so low of him that I could wonder if he would actually make such a choice."

"Oh, Estel…" Elrohir sighed, eyes sliding closed, head canting to one side he absorbed the body blow, and Elrond had his answer.

Pain such as this could not be quantified.

Not that he'd truly thought it could be.

Meanwhile Elladan, silent and still, face pale, eyes shadowed as he angled forward, a half-step until he stood between his father and his twin with iron in his spine, ready to carry the weight.

"No wonder he is hiding."

Even the weight of conversation.

Elrond would have taken a moment to be proud of Elladan for that, except the words echoed all the other burdens he son had been forced to bear, whether by love or duty or something else entirely. So much like himself, his oldest son.

That was not always a good thing.

"Do you think we should look for him again?" Elrohir asked, looking out passed the shield cast by his twin, addressing his father.

He had never been one to follow blindly.

"If you haven't found a trace of him by now, odds are that he doesn't want to be found," Elrond concluded, some of his own exhaustion bleeding through the words even though he knew his twins would not take it for the dismissal he'd only half meant it to be.

In the past, whenever Estel got like this, Elrond had always felt it best to let him be, to leave his son alone until the maelstrom of emotion passed. After he'd gotten whatever it was out of his system, Estel would always return to whatever and whomever had set him off, usually half tripping over a double dozen apologies and a surprisingly well-thought explanation for just what had been going on inside his head – or inside his heart. Though it wasn't a common occurrence, it happened often enough for Elrond to realize that whenever Estel went haring off – usually after having thrown just about anything and everything he could think of at everyone within earshot to keep them from even _wanting _to follow after him – then he was already too far gone for anyone to be able to reach him anyway. Estel dug his own pitfalls, but then he also always clawed his own way out of them. It had been proven so many times that Elrond was prepared to take it as fact.

More than prepared.

And yet...

Yet when Elrohir pressed, "someone should talk to him. He cannot go on thinking such thoughts," and Elladan nodded in agreement, Elrond found himself convinced, because for all this was a familiar dance, Elrond couldn't shake the feeling – foresight? paternal instincts? – that all of a sudden the steps had changed. That, for all he was well aware of exactly how much of this disaster was squarely his own fault, that there was something else here. Something wrapped up in all the things that Estel _hadn't_ said, something _important_. Something that he had missed.

Something _else _important that he had missed.

"Quite right," he admitted, now finally banishing all emotion save determination. He had an eternity ahead of him to indulge in cycles of guilt and second-guessing. Estel did not.

And even if he did, Estel was infinitely more important.

"You should find him if you can. Hopefully his contempt for me does not extend to the two of you."

This intolerable situation was of Elrond's making – perhaps only partially, perhaps a whole lot more than he could fathom now – and so it was on his shoulders to make it right again.

Even if Elladan usurped that burden for a while. Even if Elrohir followed after him.

Elrohir was not one to follow blindly.

"Don't worry, father. We will find him." One of them spoke for both of them, and in that moment it did not matter which for they were of one mind.

Elrond well remembered what that was like. It was comforting in a way only a twin could understand, and finally the knots in Elrond's chest and along his spine started to uncurl, just a little, for the promise inherent in their words.

His twins would find Estel, and Estel would listen to them. He always had.

Together they could fix this, he was certain. He was _more than_ certain.

So – why then this feeling of foreboding? Twisting inside his stomach and bending his thoughts into places he'd rather they didn't go.

_Foreboding? _

No. _Call it like it is, Elrond._

In the returning quiet of his study, in the dark and the gloom of the deepening twilight, Elrond owned up to a fear he never wanted to face, a fear he'd look on from varying distances for 2827 years (and 156 days).

The fear of losing a child.

* * *

Unfortunately, Elladan and Elrohir had no luck finding Aragorn before dinner. The evening meal was eaten in hurried silence and then the twins began their search anew, joined by Glorfindel, Erestor, Lindir, and any other elf who wished to assist them. Lord Elrond, though he desperately wanted to be a part of the search for his missing son, knew that even if he should chance to find him, that Estel would flee. The elf lord knew that his place was indoors this night, clinging to the vain hope that Estel would return of his own free will. Anxiously he resigned himself to waiting in his study, his eyes staring out over all Imladris in hopes of spotting Estel as he made his way back home. Elrond knew that his vigil would be futile, but like any concerned parent, he sat in waiting all the same. He saw the searchers return one by one as their confidences at being able to find anyone or anything in the dark slowly dropped off by skill.

When dawn finally rose over the eastern horizon, Elrond, his eyes bleary from exhaustion and worry, saw three scouting parties depart. He didn't need to scrutinize them closely to know that they were lead by Glorfindel and the twins.

As soon as the searchers were out of sight, Elrond felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

"You should rest."

It was Erestor.

Elrond then caught the scent of tea. He turned around to face his advisor and Erestor withdrew the hand and stepped back, ever the proper elf.

"Somehow I believe that sleep will elude me for quite a while yet," Elrond replied with a sad smile.

Erestor resisted a frown. "I had assumed as much." He then picked up the mug of tea that he had set on the desk and wordlessly proffered it to Elrond.

The elf lord took it and sniffed at it cautiously. "You didn't put a sleeping draught in here, did you?" he asked quite seriously.

Erestor had to laugh, though it was restrained. "My Lord, you flatter me with your beliefs of my knowledge of botany. Apart from using _athelas_ and other essential healing herbs, I know naught of the subject."

Elrond highly doubted that was true, but nonetheless he smiled as he took a drink. Sure enough, there were no traces of anything remotely suspicious. "My thanks," he said, wrapping his fingers around the mug and relishing in the warmth. Elrond then closed his eyes for a time before turning around and returning his gaze out the window.

"What have you foreseen?" Erestor asked, being one of the very few who could get away with such a question.

Elrond sighed. "I know not if it is foresight," he said, "or simply the product of the overactive imagination of a father whose son is presently missing."

Erestor stiffened. "You fear something's happened?"

"I am not sure," Elrond replied, his voice colored with tired frustration. "He hurts, of that I am certain. Emotional pain has a way of creating physical manifestations, especially in fragile souls such as his. But it is not this pain that concerns me at the moment." At that Elrond turned around, fixing his gaze on his advisor as though searching Erestor's stoic visage for answers. "_Mellonin_, I fear that he is not coming back."

Erestor sighed, though inaudibly, as he searched for the right words. After the Lady Celebrían departed over the sea, the task of soothing Elrond's well concealed yet oft turbulent emotions had fallen to Glorfindel. But, since the Vanya was not presently here…

"You fear that he has run away?" Erestor chanced a guess and was rewarded with a nod.

"He left believing awful untruths, Erestor. Though I can see how he was misled."

"Yet you are not responsible for his thoughts," Erestor informed his lord, his voice soft yet firm.

"Am I not?" Elrond questioned. "Is it not a father's job to instill confidence in his son? Clearly I have failed him in this task if he thinks that I can believe such wretched things about his character."

"Everyone has fears," Erestor countered, "no matter how confident. We look to others to either confirm or ameliorate those fears because that confidence means nothing if others in turn hold no confidence in us. We all know that Estel's fears are of inadequacy and _edain_ weakness, and most of all that his loved ones will reject him for it."

"And he perceived such rejection from me last afternoon," Elrond concluded, though he already knew it to be true.

"Sadly, My Lord, he mistook your presupposed assumptions of his strength as such a rejection."

"I should have known that he would think it so," Elrond admitted on the tails of a sigh, closing his eyes against the guilt.

"You have reassured him all his life – as have we all – that he should not hate nor fear that which makes him different from the elves, and that you love him as a son just the same. You have never ceased to demonstrate this. It is not your fault that in times of great distress he chooses to forget it."

Elrond nodded slightly for he only partially agreed. "However," he countered, "Estel hasn't had nearly half as long to deal with the reality of the implications of who his is. Naturally his confidences there wouldn't be as strong as the rest. I failed to take that into account when I approached the matter of his destiny."

Erestor sighed again, using all of his restraint to keep it silent. Truly he was not nearly as skilled in the art of counseling as one should be for times like these. Celebrían, Glorfindel, the twins even, they were counselors. He, Erestor, was merely an advisor.

"Elrond, your son should never doubt that you love him, regardless of all else; regardless of his race, regardless of his destiny, regardless even of his love for your beloved daughter." Erestor paused to gage Elrond's reaction to his candor. Sensing no rebuke, the advisor continued, speaking with a firm and commanding voice, yet still with all the respect that his lord was due:

"It is always easier for us to believe our fears then for us to allow them to be pacified, for asking the question could lead to more hurtful answers. Hearing such truths only in our own minds is safer than hearing them from the tongues of loved ones. Estel will realize this when his emotions finally abate enough for his rational mind to remind him of it, and then he will return to you, because he is your son, and he loves you."

Lord Elrond sighed heavily. "You are right of course," he said at last. "But telling a father to wait patiently while his son roams the wilds, angry and alone, for an untold amount of time…"

"Now I know why Glorfindel insisted on joining the search." Erestor made a stab at humor to lighten the mood, and after a brief pause Elrond laughed at the joke because one was not often certain when Erestor was truly joking. However, Elrond's laughter was punctured by a fierce yawn.

"Please take some rest, My Lord," Erestor implored. "You'll be no use to anyone if you exhaust yourself."

Lord Elrond nodded dumbly as he yawned again, and Erestor led him out of his study. Elrond's chambers were at the far west end of the hall, but instead of heading for them, the elf lord turned east and sought out Aragorn's room. Erestor followed wordlessly for there was nothing to say.

Though he knew it was pointless, Elrond knocked anyway. Receiving no answer, he pushed open the double doors. The room was as he expected it to be: empty with the bed not slept in. Elrond surveyed the room slowly with a heavy heart, unable to keep thoughts of the probable length of time before his son once again slept in this bed from entering his mind.

Erestor stood patiently in the doorway as suddenly Elrond walked over to the bed. The advisor thought that his lord was about to choose Estel's bed to sleep in, but then Elrond picked something up off the nightstand. He turned to Erestor, his face pale and his eyes filled with paternal fear.

"Tell me again," he all but begged, his voice soft and strained for the sudden lump in his throat. "Tell me that I will see my son again."

Erestor entered the room, making his way to where his lord stood, but he stopped short when he noticed what Elrond held in his hand.

The ring of Barahir.

* * *

Three search parties rode outwards from the Last Homely House. If anyone thought it strange that no less than thirty elves were commanded to the task of locating Lord Elrond's foster son, none dared speak on it. Indeed, even the twins were most pleasantly surprised when Glorfindel pulled every available elf he could spare from Imladris's defenses in order to search for Estel.

However, rather than showing his usual optimism, the Vanya was uncharacteristically grim, and this immediately had a subduing affect on the moods of all present for the search. Though not being possessed of true foresight, the strategus of Imladris did seem to have a keener insight than most, and none that knew him well would dare disregard his hunches. This day, it seemed, Glorfindel perceived that if they did not catch up with Estel before he traveled beyond their reach, then it would be a very long time before they would see him again.

And Glorfindel, sworn protector of the House of Ngolofinwë in exile (and their human foster sons), was bound and determined not to let that happen.

The company kept to the main road as it led out of Imladris, following the fresh tracks of Aragorn's mare until they crossed the last bridge over the Bruinen. There the prints of many horses mingled and merged in the sandy soil where the recent drought had turned the road almost to dust. Worse, the untamed winds beyond Vilya's reach had already eroded the topsoil, blunting down the discernable differences between the various tracks – including recently they had been made.

However, these weather-related hindrances were a well-known reality to the Imladris border patrols, and so were the reason three separate search parties were necessary. After crossing the bridge, Elladan turned his party north, headed for the ranger camp to see if Aragorn had reported back to them (or if he had at least taken council with his mother). Elrohir went east along the Old Forest Road, bound for Mirkwood, for even if Estel had not gone to see Legolas it would still be wise to alert The Woodland Realm to be on the lookout for any future appearances by the ranger. Lastly, Glorfindel turned his party south on the off chance that Estel would make for Lothlórien, and while he truly doubted this actuality, his best hunch told him that south was indeed the right direction.

* * *

When Elladan's party had traveled far enough north of the sands of the Bruinen flood-plain, they discovered a set of fresh tracks that emerged from the silted trail pavement as it hardened into more solid earth. Elladan placed these tracks at being less than a day old, and the elves' collective hopes rose for the likelihood that they belonged to Estel's mare. The ranger had obviously turned north towards the Dúnedain camp immediately after crossing the Bruinen. With a little bit of luck, the search party would find Estel in residence.

Elladan allowed himself to think only optimistic thoughts as they journeyed. Indeed, he stubbornly refused to entertain any possibilities other than finding Estel safe among the rangers. While the fact remained that Estel had run away after an argument with their father, Elladan would challenge any son to deny a similar incident from their own past. He himself vividly remembered a few explosive arguments of his own with Lord Elrond. Fathers and sons will always find something to fight about; such was just a fact of life.

Elladan perceived that all he had to do was locate his brother, and – after a fierce hug and an assurance that Estel was yet unharmed (the latter being more reflex than conscious thought for Elladan) – it would be an easy thing to reassure him that his brothers still loved him, and that their father still loved him, and that Glorfindel and Erestor still loved him, and – all of Imladris, really. Yes, Elladan was certain that he could at least help to put to rights this grievous wrong. He would not fail the son of Arathorn, his youngest brother, by allowing the boy to slip through his grasp and escape while still believing that his family had renounced him. As Elladan noticed the search party's entrance into the Dúnedain forests he swore to himself that he would not fail. He _must_ not!

Elladan instructed his warriors to be on their guard. The rangers protected their camps fiercely, and could lie in waiting in the trees _almost_ as well as any elf, and Elladan's company was riding towards their camp both unexpected and unannounced in their haste. It wasn't that Elladan feared an attack, but rather it was more so that the elves of his company who were not as familiar with the rangers would not startle and fire a reactionary arrow into the trees.

Seemingly on random cue, Elladan raised his arm to signal a halt. Some of the horses nervously stomped their feet, only to be calmed by their equally edgy riders. Elladan then released a series of short whistles and chirps which were presently answered seemingly from all around them. The elves and horses relaxed at this, for it meant that the eyes they all felt watching them were friendly. The entire party startled at a rustling noise off to their left, only to see an aged yet still spry ranger drop from the trees.

"Hail and greetings, son of Elrond!" the ranger called, a broad grin on his face. The twins were well known to the Dúnedain, and well liked – even if few could tell them apart.

"Greetings to you, Darnel," Elladan answered as he dismounted. "_Mae govannen_!" The two clasped arms in a firm warrior's handshake.

"My people are always grateful to Rivendell for sending aide to our own causes in the Fight Against Shadow," Darnel began, "but tell me, Elrondion: what brings your company – untold and unlooked for – to our doorstep this day?"

Elladan sobered, standing a bit straighter at the reminder of his errand. "I have come to take council with Bowen," he answered. "Those of my company will find their employ upon the results of that meeting."

Darnel nodded. "Very well then, son of Elrond. You know the way to the camp. The other rangers will not bother you, though I must return to my post."

"Thank you, _mellonin_," said Elladan as he mounted. "May Eru keep you safe until our paths cross once again."

Elladan wasted no time, and suddenly he and the other elves were cantering off towards the ranger camp, moving as swiftly as they felt confident while still following Aragorn's trail, lest it veer off into the forest.

Yet the trail did not turn, and shortly the woods parted for a bit of a clearing. Here there were many homes of logs bound with vines and mud, and with thatching for the roofs. Not much to look at, these simple abodes were surprisingly sturdy and quite well insolated from wind and weather. Several structures were more permanent, constructed of solid masonry work. A palisade wall has been abandoned in favor of the guardsmen in the trees, but the camp felt no less enclosed and protected because of it. And of course, some of those 'houses' were armories, easily collapsible to make use of the two onagers Elladan knew the rangers to have in their arsenal.

The hoof-beats of ten approaching horses were easily heard in the camp, and many turned out to see what the clamor was about. Elladan was able to distinguish Bowen, chieftain of the Dúnedain, amongst the small crowd.

"Well if it isn't a son of Elrond!" Bowen greeted, stepping forward to greet the party. Elladan dismounted and signaled his warriors to do the same. "But only one, and in the company of warriors." Bowen's face darkened in concern. "Pray tell what brings you thusly to my doorstep – and what of your brother? Is he well?"

"Peace, Dúnadan," Elladan reassured, raising his hand for quiet. "Elrohir is merely on another errand for our Father. His current business is with Mirkwood."

Bowen smiled, though his mind was already digesting this information. A keen intellect sparkled behind his eyes. "Lord Elrond sends one son to Mirkwood, and the other here to me. Only great circumstance can separate the Peredhil twins, so Elrohir must also be traveling in like company."

"You presume correctly," Elladan answered. "But stay your questions. You shall have your answers, but we must take council in private, and there is much I have to discuss with you."

Bowen's eyes narrowed. Very little was not trusted to his rangers that would prompt a private meeting between them, and based on last night's guest he had a strong suspicion of what it might be. Finally he nodded.

"Very well, son of Elrond," he said warily. "Your horses may graze here, as they are wont, but I'm afraid we have not much in the way of hospitality to offer your warriors."

"That is quite all right, master Dúnadan," said Tarandil, one of the warriors in Elladan's company. "We shall be quite all right here amongst the trees until you have need of us," he addressed to Elladan, who nodded.

"Come then, Elrondion," said Bowen, and he lead the way towards one of the stone buildings.

Elladan followed Bowen into the building, which served as an office of sorts. There was a desk back in one corner, and a large table with many maps and scrolls lying about. Bowen shut the door behind Elladan and gestured for him to have a seat at the table, which the elf politely declined with a wave of his hand.

"Why this need of secrecy, even from your own warriors?" Bowen asked candidly, leaning himself against the edge of the table.

"Those in my company are well aware of our errand," Elladan answered. "They only await the outcome of this discussion to receive their further orders."

Bowed nodded. "Discuss away," he invited with ample panache.

Elladan smirked. Bowen reminded him a lot of Arathorn, but now was not the time for such thoughts. "I must be direct, Bowen, for this errand does not lend time for subtlety."

Bowen stood up straighter, his interests piqued.

"Have you seen or heard from Strider these past two days?"

Bowen's first reaction was to laugh, for ten elves seemed a bit excessive to search for one man. But then, that man _was_ counted as a son of Elrond, even to the rangers (for even among their own ranks, few knew Aragorn's true identity, as it was their lot to believe that the heir of Isildur perished in the orc attack that claimed his father until such time as Aragorn was deemed worthy of his inheritance). A thousand reasons as to why Elrond would send such a contingent of warriors in search of his son swirled in the ranger's mind, each less pleasant than the last.

"He came to us last night," Bowen replied, "but said that he had something of great import to take care of, and that we should not expect him back for some time while he completes this task."

"Is he still here?" Elladan asked, suddenly hopefully.

Bowen sighed. "Alas, he didn't stay with us for long," he explained, and Elladan's face fell. "He delivered his message and then headed on his way."

"Did he happen to mention what his errand was?"

Bowen scrutinized Elladan's face carefully, thinking this to be some form of test, but he found only curiosity on Elladan's face… and disappointment… and concern for his brother.

"Nay," Bowen confessed, and once again Elladan let his disappointment show. "I had assumed that it was some sort of mission for your father, or perhaps Mithrandir, that required discretion, so I did not press. Strider is not one to take leave of his duties here without due cause."

Elladan nodded even though a rather uncomfortable feeling had settled into the pit of his stomach. Estel had essentially taken a leave of absence from the rangers. Why would he do that? Where would he flee to after here? Elladan shuddered to think of the possibilities.

"Do you know if he spoke to the Lady Gilraen before taking his leave?" he asked; his last thread of hope.

"Of that I'm not sure," Bowen answered. "I do not believe so, but you may ask her. She is in the infirmary."

Elladan nodded and took his leave. Bowen followed at a distance, giving Elladan the right to a private word with Lady Gilraen.

Elladan found his way across the camp to the largest of the wooden structures, which he knew to be the infirmary. The cold, damp conditions that were known to linger in the stone buildings were best avoided in tending to the sick and injured. It was here that he found Gilraen, just as Bowen promised, rebinding the splint on a young boy's leg.

"_Suilad_, Híril-nin," Elladan greeted cheerfully, effectively taking both Gilraen and the ranger-boy quite by surprise.

Gilraen spun at the sound of the voice, and smiled brightly when she sighted Elladan. "_Suilad_, Elladan," she greeted in return, making a grand show of a curtsey. Elladan smirked and shook his head. Gilraen was one of the very few Dúnedain who could tell the twins apart.

"And where is your better half?" she asked. Then calling: "Elrohir?"

"I'm afraid that Elrohir is not here," Elladan answered. "His is on an errand to Mirkwood."

"And you thought you'd alleviate your boredom by visiting me?" Gilraen returned. By now she had returned to securing the boy's splint into place. The lad couldn't have been more than fifteen years old.

"You seem to have kept yourself busy enough," Elladan observed.

Gilraen smiled brightly and then stood aside. Needing no further prompting, Elladan assumed Gilraen's position by the boy's side. The boy gazed up at the strange, dark-haired elf nervously, but Elladan flashed his most charming smile.

"The son of Elrond is a more skilled healer than I," Gilraen reassured. The boy wavered, but then nodded to Elladan, who only then perceived he had been given consent to touch him.

"What is your name?" Elladan asked as he removed the splint from the bandage, doing his best to sound friendly and cheerful despite this distraction from his mission to find Estel.

"Halbarad," the boy answered, his voice as uncertain as his expression made him out to be.

"Well Halbarad, this was a clean break," Elladan assured as he finished running expert hands along the injured leg. "Provided you obey the healers, you'll be climbing trees again in no time."

"That's how he broke it the first time," Gilraen interjected, scolding slightly and yet with lingering amusement. Halbarad's cheeks flushed and Elladan smiled as he rebound he splint to the outside of the bandage.

"You do good work, my lady," said Elladan, standing once more.

"I had a good teacher," she returned warmly, and Elladan smiled. Elrond had taught her what he could of the healing arts during the brief time she had lived in Imladris.

Then Elladan's smile suddenly vanished. "My lady, if there's nothing more pressing for you here, I'd like a word. In private."

Gilraen caught on quickly to his change of mood and nodded swiftly. She excused them to Halbarad and then led Elladan out the rear door of the infirmary. Here they stood in the open but far from curious ears.

"What is it Elladan?" Gilraen asked once they made sure no one was near. She knew the sons of Elrond far too well – they were pathologically incapable of hiding things from her for any great length of time, especially when such things concerned her son – which was the only excuse Elladan could possibly have for wanting to speak to her in private.

Elladan sighed, collecting himself. "When Estel came through here last night, did he speak with you?"

Gilraen's eyes flashed. "Estel was here? Last night?"

Elladan nodded to her, but his spirits sank with the gesture. Gilraen was his last lead.

"I have not seen him since he left us to spend some time with his Elven family," she confessed, a highly pointed statement.

"He left Imladris yesterday afternoon. We were hoping that he came back here."

"We?" That was when Gilraen noticed the other elves, tending their horses or lounging beneath the trees. There were nine of them. Gilraen's eyes darkened dangerously as she turned back to Elladan.

"Why would you think he would return here within _days_ of taking leave?" she asked, her voice low and threatening enough to instill fear in anyone, even a son of Elrond.

Elladan sighed heavily and wished for Arda to swallow him whole. Not only had he failed to reach Estel in time, but now he was faced with the task of telling a mother that her son was presently missing.

* * *

A party the size of Elrohir's could reach the Western borders of Mirkwood in sixteen days if they were not on any important errands that required fantastic speeds. Unfortunately, Elrohir's party had to simultaneously travel as swiftly as they were able whilst also keeping an eye out for Estel's trail, lest they somehow cross it in the circumstance that the ranger had turned east towards Mirkwood at some point. The party made the best time that they were able under such conditions, but thus far there were no signs that Aragorn had rejoined the Old Forest Road.

After nearly a fortnight without rest save for their horses Elrohir and the nine elves in his charge finally reached the western boarders of Mirkwood. Even still, they were far from Thranduil's kingdom, which was at the northeast end of the forest. By this point Elrohir had all but given up the hope that Estel's trail would find this road by the third day into their journey, but nonetheless he staunchly refused to abandon the search. After all, Estel may have sought the Woodland Realm by other paths, through the trees and amongst the dangers of Mirkwood. It made Elrohir physically sick to think that Estel, after having run away believing that his family had renounced him, was lying somewhere off the beaten path, poisoned by some orc arrow or spider bite, dying lost and alone, lamenting the loss of his family…

Elrohir would allow none to rest on their seemingly mad dash to the realm of King Thranduil. Search parties must be sent into Mirkwood – surely Legolas would see to that much at least! Estel must be found before something terrible happened and it was too late to heal the emotional hurts Elrohir was certain his younger brother was carrying. Oh, how he wished he could just gather Estel into his arms and assuage all the fears and self-doubts with simple reassurances and love! It had worked so well when Estel was a child, but now…

Now that child was a man, and that man was out there somewhere, hurting and alone.

Elrohir ran the horses into the ground between the eastern foothills of the Misty Mountains and the western borders of Mirkwood, his party completing that leg of their journey in a near-record-breaking four-day marathon as they strove to make up for the time they'd lost in trying to ascertain whether or not Estel had journeyed on this road. Now finally, as they reached the western boarders of Mirkwood, Elrohir was beset by indecision. Should they continue to follow the road until it met Celduin, the River Running, and so follow the river north into Thranduil's kingdom? Or should they veer northeast now and cut through the forest on the Mirkwood patrol paths? The shortcut would shave nearly a day off their journey – probably more if they rode without heed of danger – or rather, without heed for anything save their mission – and blazed through the forest at top speeds, yet they would run the risk of encountering spiders and other foul servants of Darkness that seemed to creep ever outwards from Dul Guldor.

Conversely the Forest Road was clear and as safe as a passage through Mirkwood could be, but it would take time that Elrohir feared his search party didn't have. His younger brother was out there somewhere, perhaps here in Mirkwood, and Elrohir could not shake the feeling of urgency that they find him. Dark thoughts of tangible things raced through his mind, visions of Estel being captured by orcs, or devoured by spiders or wargs, but yet the far more pressing danger in Elrohir's mind was that his brother was out in the wilds, alone, and most likely feeling as though his love for Arwen had cost him the love of his family. Elrohir subconsciously urged his horse to run faster at the thought, for that was a circumstance he could easily remedy if only he could find Estel.

Elrohir kept his company on the Forest Road and hoped to make up the difference with sheer speed. He felt his twin's absence prominently now, for Elladan had always taken the lead in situations like these. Not that their thoughts ever differed greatly, but rather it was simply good to know that someone else shared your opinions and agreed with your decisions. Regardless, none of the nine in his company questioned this decision.

Yet even at the breakneck pace Elrohir set, it was another four days before they reached the southern borders of the Woodland Realm, and their party wasn't escorted into the kingdom proper until the following morning. Elrohir had not slept in eleven days when at last he was brought before the door warden for Thranduil's cavernous palace to request rest and shelter for his company and a personal audience with Prince Legolas.

"My Lord, please – sit down before you fall down."

Elrohir and company were greeted almost immediately by Ithilion, seneschal of the Woodland Realm. Ithilion has served the kings of Mirkwood ever since the kingdom's founding in the second age, having been among Oropher's original colonists. In ages past he had been counted among the green elves of Beleriand, though his sister married one of the survivors of Doriath who dwelt under the unofficial lordship of Oropher in Lindon. Thus when Oropher decided to leave Lindon and marched eastward over the Misty Mountains in search of distant kin (and an escape from Noldor rule), Ithilion swore fealty so that he might accompany his sister and brother-in-law for they were the only family he had left in Middle-earth. Ithilion served loyally in Oropher's court until the Last Alliance, and then when Thranduil assumed the crown and led the remnants of their army home again, the new king named Ithilion as his seneschal.

Ithilion, therefore, was well acquainted with Elrond of Sirion, and then or Balar, Lindon, and now Imladris, and therefore also with his sons, for whom he had great respect. Of course, he was scores of _yéni_ older than they, and ergo that respect was colored by an almost paternal authority and concern (that not even Thranduil, also much his junior, ccould escape at times).

Before the seneschal of Mirkwood Elrohir bowed, courtly and polite, yet was shaking his head even as he straightened up again. "I am sorry, Ithilion, but I am on urgent assignment on behalf of Imladris, and I must deliver my message to Legolas. I will not rest until I have done so."

Ithilion sighed. The Peredhil twins were still Lords of Imladris, and as such he could not force them into any action that they did not agree to take. "Prince Legolas is not presently in the palace, but I shall summon him forthwith. In the meantime, if your errand is of such great import, would you then consent to an audience with King Thranduil instead? Your message may be delivered, and you can then retire before you collapse in a heap on my floor, which I just had scrubbed…"

Elrohir noticed the smirk twitching at the corners of Ithilion's mouth and had no choice but to return it. He was always touched by the concern the seneschal showed for his family – concern even in the face of what Elrohir would have dubbed far more pressing matters. "Given the circumstances, I don't see as I have much choice."

Elrohir sounded tired, almost defeated, and that struck new chords of worry with Ithilion. Yet, if something truly grievous had happened, then surely Elrohir would have said so directly. While he did not appear to be injured, Ithilion still sensed that something was somehow 'off' with the Peredhil twin, something that Ithilion could not quite place. And where was Elladan?

Ithilion nodded warily. "King Thranduil is in his study. If you will follow me?"

Elrohir allowed the seneschal to lead him through the halls of the palace, the rest of his company following behind. This walk was completed in silence, and to Ithilion, the Imladris elves – and Elrohir especially – appeared to be in some sort of daze. Perhaps it was testimony to their fatigue? Ithilion hoped so. The alternatives were considerably worse.

Presently they arrived at the grand doors to Thranduil's personal study. Ithilion knocked twice, very distinctly, before letting himself in. He reemerged shortly thereafter.

"The King will see you," he said to Elrohir. "Shall I have your entourage shown to guests' quarters?"

At the very mention of such a thing, Elrohir's company stood tall and firm, silently telegraphing their thoughts on the matter. This was both a show of loyalty towards their captain and a manifestation of their collective concern for Estel. Elrohir cast a sweeping glance in their direction before laughing a brief, mirthless laugh.

"I do not believe they find your suggestion terribly appealing," he said on the tail end of that laugh. "No, my company will wait for my business to be concluded before we take our rest together."

Ithilion was impressed by their solidarity if nothing else. "Very well then, Lord Elrohir. King Thranduil is expecting you. I now take my leave to locate the Prince and inform him of your wish to speak with him." Then a curt bow and Ithilion was gone in a flurry of robes.

Elrohir took a few deep, calming breaths, and collected himself. He would have much rather spoken of this to Legolas first, trusting in the great friendship the Prince shared with Estel. King Thranduil was… less open-minded… than his son. Steeling his resolve, Elrohir turned the knob, and entered the King's study.

Thranduil stood from behind his desk, his head bobbing once in welcoming. "Greetings, Elrondion. _Mae govannen_."

Elrohir bowed respectfully before the King of Mirkwood. "And to you, King Thranduil."

Thranduil's smile fell from his face as soon as he was able to take stock of Elrohir's appearance. "By the Valar, Elrohir," he said, leveling a scrutinizing gaze at the Peredhil twin. "What in Arda have you gotten yourself into now?"

Whatever disinterest Thranduil's tone conveyed, his eyes were bright with concern. The King's stare was piercing, cold and calculating assessment, and Elrohir felt uncomfortable to be its subject. Then at length Thranduil added: "you do not appear to be injured, Elrondion, but then, spiders sometimes do not appear to have fangs."

Elrohir laughed, tired and mirthless. "I apologize for appearing thusly before you," he said, gesturing to his soiled tunic and unkempt hair, "but my errand has brought me here with haste from Imladris. We had not time for rest along the road, save for the horses."

Whatever Thranduil felt at this revelation, naught of it showed on his face. Instead he sat back down again, folding his hands atop his desk as though he were but patiently awaiting an explanation. "I wonder what type of errand could have brought you here with such haste?" he said aloud, as though thinking to himself. "And with an urgent message for my son, as Ithilion has informed me."

Something in Thranduil's demeanor told Elrohir that he wasn't meant to answer these questions yet. Sure enough, a few moments later the King added: "very curious indeed, Elrondion, but first the more pressing concern. Where is your brother?"

Thranduil had hoped that he was a good enough reader of personalities to be able to judge that if something were truly wrong with the missing twin that he would have discerned such immediately from Elrohir. Yet even still, the absence was prominent and worth addressing. However Elrohir, being on an errand concerning Estel, had his foster brother at the forefront of his mind and that influenced his interpretation of Thranduil's questioned.

"King Thranduil, it is on behalf of my brother that I am currently standing before you."

The King's eyes flashed briefly, the only outwardly display of his concern. For all his aloof regality, Thranduil truly did care deeply for the sons of Elrond. It would grieve him terribly if some ill were to befall to them. "Something has happened?" he asked, his tone slightly tenser than before.

Elrohir nodded gravely. He was unsure of what to say, for Thranduil did not know the truth of Estel's true identity. Not even Legolas knew. How then could he explain that, after an argument over _Aragorn's_ destiny, his younger brother ran away? Unfortunately, Elrohir took a bit too long in pondering his response.

"Well then tell me, Elrohir!" Thranduil demanded impatiently, concern now plain to hear in his voice. "What has happened to Elladan?"

Elrohir blinked in surprise before he remembered that Thranduil would have assumed his reference was to Elladan. After all it was a rare sight indeed to encounter one Peredhil twin without the other. "Oh! You thought I meant – but you have my sincerest apologies, King Thranduil," Elrohir quickly backtracked, "for we have mistaken each other's meanings. Elladan is quite well, though at present his mission lies elsewhere. However, both of our tasks are suited to the same goal, and that goal concerns our foster brother. King Thranduil, I have requested an audience to speak both to you and to Prince Legolas of Estel."

Though Thranduil seemed taken aback by this news, he ever-so-slightly relaxed for hearing it.

Elrohir dutifully chose to ignore it. Indignation would not serve his purpose.

"Then tell me of this errand," Thranduil implored politely.

Elrohir sighed, using much of his strength to keep it inaudible. "King Thranduil, you are of course aware that twenty-four years ago my father adopted an orphaned _adan_ child, and that this child – now lately a man – has ever since been counted as a Son of Elrond, and as brother to both myself and Elladan." Elrohir paused, and Thranduil nodded. Indeed he was well aware of the facts (as they had been presented to him).

"My brother Estel," Elrohir began again, his voice falling just short of casual though still erring on the right side of royal deference, "has grown up in Imladris, the only _adan_ amongst elves. I am sure that you can appreciate the differences between we of the Firstborn and those of the _edain_." Elrohir paused again and Thranduil nodded once more, that gesture also falling just short of casual, for he'd had many long yéni to practice discerning the subtle undercurrents of courtly discourse. He knew quite well that Elrohir had slipped a subtle rebuke in between his words, yet the King of Mirkwood refused to apologize for his relief for the assurance of the eldest twin's wellbeing.

"Well I can assure you, King Thranduil, that no other is more aware of those differences than Estel himself. All his life he has been unsure of his place in our family, and ever has he been quick to second-guess himself and his worth in the eyes of Imladris." Another pause and Thranduil nodded once more, though this time with a certain fluid and disaffected grace. All of these subtle hints were the reason that Elrohir had wanted to discuss this with Legolas first. Unfortunately, Legolas was not presently here.

"Good King, we know now that these self-doubts run much deeper than any of us had ever imagined, for an argument arose between our father and Estel, and… words were taken out of context." The matter of the argument still left a bitter taste for Elrohir. It was a delicate phrasing that he chose for Thranduil because of it. "We at last discovered the depths of Estel's doubts and fears through his words and actions during and after this argument," he said at length, "much to our dismay."

Thranduil cocked his head to the side, as if in thought, but said nothing in return. His expression was no longer showing merely passive interest, however. For better or worse, it had become unreadable. Elrohir paused to give the King the chance to speak, but Thranduil remained silent and so Elrohir silently sighed, preparing himself mentally to deliver the crux of his tale.

"King Thranduil, Estel disappeared shortly after this argument. All of our efforts to locate him have been in vain. By now we are certain that his is no longer within the boundaries of Imladris and father has sent out search parties to find him. Elladan took his company north to coordinate a search with the Dúnedain of Estel's kin. Lord Glorfindel has taken a similar party south towards Lothlórien to beg the aide of Lady Galadriel." Elrohir laughed again, that tired, mirthless little laugh that he couldn't prevent. If exhaustion lent any hints of hysteria to it, well then it also prevented such from truly manifesting – by now he lacked the strength for such theatrics.

"And I, and my own company, have traveled here to your realm, oh King, in hopes that Estel might have come this way, trusting to his friendship with Prince Legolas."

Thranduil's expression hardened, just barely perceptibly, but then Elrohir was a particularly perceptive elf. Yet for all of that, he completely missed the possibility that Thranduil could have been responding to the mocking delivery of his title rather than the reminder of Estel's friendship with Mirkwood's own prince.

"Alas," Elrohir lamented, bitterness creeping into his words now, bitter helplessness and bitter exhaustion, the bitter fruits of failure. "We've discovered neither trace nor track of Estel along the Old Forest Road, and so my role in this campaign has changed from that of seeker to that of emissary."

Thranduil sat up straighter at this comment in anticipation of the final reason for Elrohir to be standing here before him, and Elrohir too seemed to realize that he'd reached the end of his tale and that now he must master himself anew, for this moment called for nothing short of his complete and utter sincerity.

"King Thranduil, I stand before you on behalf of Lord Elrond of Imladris to humbly beg the Woodland Realm for assistance in finding his missing foster son, my brother Estel."

Now Thranduil sat back in his chair, having finally heard the words he has been expecting to hear for most of Elrohir's speech. It was no small thing, what the Peredhil asked, for Mirkwood's own patrols were already stretched thin enough as it was. And so the King sighed, a careless gesture as calculations and probabilities bedded down and reproduced inside his fertile mind, and there was a considerable pause during witch Thranduil chose his next words carefully.

"Elrohir Peredhil," he formally intoned as he sat forward once again. It wasn't lost on Elrohir that, even though Thranduil owned the weaker physical position, the King still commanded the entire scene. "I shall have word sent to Lord Elrond stating that, as one father to another, I shall do all that is feasibly within my power to help locate his wayward son."

Initially Elrohir's heart leapt at this statement, but then one word rung louder than the rest inside his mind. _Feasible_. King Thranduil promised all that was _feasible_. And what exactly did that mean?

Yet Thranduil was smiling, a tight-lipped though indulgent smile. "Now Lord Elrohir, if this concludes your errand here, may I humbly implore you to take some rest?"

Elrohir hung his head, nodding slightly, and hoped that Thranduil would interpret the gesture as merely fatigue.

"Good. I believe you'll find that my seneschal has already procured lodging for those of your company. Your usual room is available for your use, of course."

Elrohir bowed respectfully. "You have my thanks, King Thranduil." Then he took his leave of the King's study. He found his warriors waiting outside for him, just as he suspected, along with Ithilion.

"King Thranduil has promised all the help that is feasible for Mirkwood to give," Elrohir informed his elves. Whether they understood the true meaning of this phrase – or heard the subtle bit their captain lent to the words – they still all nodded in acceptance.

"Now that your business has concluded, Lord Elrohir, would you and your entourage please retire to the rooms I have provided?" Ithilion pleaded, nothing but concern showing in his ageless face.

Elrohir nodded absently, his fatigue truly setting in now in the absence of more pressing matters at hand.

Ithilion smiled gratefully and with relief. "I believe you know the way to your traditional chambers," he said to Elrohir. "With your leave, I shall escort your contingent to their own."

Once again Elrohir nodded, and this time the elves in his party did not protest.

"Legolas?" Elrohir asked belatedly, even as Ithilion had turned to leave.

"His current tour of duty has bound him to a patrol close to the palace," the seneschal explained. "Word has been sent to him, and he should arrive by nightfall."

Elrohir smiled, nodding in acceptance of this.

"Even though you _will_ be sleeping, I shall send him to you anyway. No doubt that since this concerns Estel, he would insist upon waking you."

Elrohir laughed outright but he didn't refute the statement. Indeed he could not. With those last words, Elrohir allowed himself to be led down the hallway, along with the rest of his party, towards a warm bed and the very inviting concept of sleep.

Thranduil was sitting at his desk, one hand supporting his chin in a contemplative position, when Ithilion returned.

"The Noldor are resting, _aranin_" the seneschal said respectfully. "And your son is on his way."

Thranduil nodded absently. "I doubt he will take this news well."

"I could have him sent to Elrohir's quarters straight away," Ithilion observed, again with due respect, but Thranduil laughed heartily.

"And spare me the task of having to inform him personally?"

There was no indication as to whether or not this question was rhetorical, so Ithilion changed tactics. "No doubt Legolas will seek Elrohir in haste the moment you give him leave."

"Yes," Thranduil agreed, almost fatalistically. "His friendship with the adan son of Elrond is quite strong."

Ithilion was often grateful for his position as seneschal, as it gave him rare liberties in addressing and questioning his King. "What do you intend to do, _aranin_?"

Thranduil sighed heavily. Then he stood and came to stand in front of the portrait of his family, rendered seven hundred years ago. He had a wife then, and two sons…

Ithilion respectfully looked away.

"I have always marveled at Elrond Peredhil," he said wistfully. "Ever has he been able to offer simple kindness and decency to all the good people of Middle Earth, even when he has experienced keenly more of the hurts and cruelties that existence has to offer than any living elf I dare you to name." Thranduil sighed again, his gaze never leaving the portrait. "It is his healer's nature, I suppose, that accounts for such gentleness of spirit."

"Empathy is a trait inherent to those with the healing touch," Ithilion offered neutrally, not sure of where this conversation was going… or even if Thranduil's ramblings were directed at him.

Still, the King nodded thoughtfully. "I know many of us have yet to feel forgiveness towards Isildur and his vanity," he continued. "Our hearts remain cold towards the kingdoms of edain to this very day. We remain quite content to watch them destroy themselves… and to therefore let them be destroyed."

"Some would argue that we have our own problems to contend with," Ithilion interjected, voicing Thranduil's time-honored position every time Arnor had appealed to the Woodland Realm for aide.

Thranduil chuckled at the reminder. "Indeed we do," he said, turning to his seneschal at last. "We fight the Shadow, they fight the Shadow – _everyone _is fighting the Shadow. Yet only recently it seems are our efforts relatively coordinated."

"You referring to the Dúnedain rangers," Ithilion concluded.

Thranduil nodded. "They have proven to be worthy allies," he admitted. "And I would have considered myself the last on Arda to admit such a thing," he added, enjoying the quiet laugher of his seneschal at that statement, whatever its truth.

"They alone seem to have a remnant of the Noble Houses," Ithilion observed, stilling his mirth.

Thranduil nodded thoughtfully. "Of all the edain, the rangers and their kin are the only ones worthy of the blood they are born with. They are the only edain worthy of the respect and friendship of the Eldar." Thranduil spoke this as a decree, too used to being King, it seemed, after all so many centuries.

Ithilion nodded placatingly. "Yes, _aranin_."

Thranduil laughed unexpectedly, and then just as unexpectedly, returned his gaze towards the portrait. "It does not take a genius to guess at Elrond's feelings towards the Dúnedain," he continued. "Elendil roused all our hopes after the Downfall, only to have Isildur dash them. And now, too late it seems, and too close to the end, the Northern Dúnedain come to us with the nobility and honor of their ancestors all thought was forgotten."

"Elros Peredhil I knew," Ithilion interjected, instantly getting Thranduil's attention. "Whist he was dwelling amongst Círdan's people before sailing to Númenor. He was a good elf, and a better man. I believe he would be proud of his descendents, and of the close relationship they have with Imladris."

The King nodded thoughtfully. "And now this Estel, the foundling Dúnadan the twins rescued and brought to Imladris for fostering… the adan child whom the Peredhil House has adopted, whom Elrond calls 'son' and the twins 'brother'… the first and only adan able to win my son's friendship… it seems has bit the hands that fed him, and fled into the wilds."

Ithilion stiffened at the comment, for it seemed quite out of place with everything else the King has said. "_Aranin_?"

Thrandul sighed again, heavily, defeated. Then he went back and sat at his desk, bringing forth a fresh length of parchment and dipping his quill into ink. Ithilion inched closer to see if he could discern what was being written.

"Ithilion," said the King, looking up from the parchment as he signed his name to it.

The seneschal stood at attention.

"Send word throughout the kingdom. A Son of Elrond is missing. I want all patrols alerted to be on the lookout for his presence. On the morrow, after the party from Imladris has rested, send volunteers amongst our ranks to accompany them. They will want to visit Dale and Esgaroth. Have a scout guide them as far as Erebor, but I believe that party should consist of the Noldor only, for they are friendly with the dwarves – and Elrohir especially. In fact, grant Legolas leave to act as scout for Elrohir when he insists, for no doubt Elrohir will insist on making that journey himself."

By now Thranduil had placed the missive in an envelope and sealed it with wax and the official Woodland Crest.

"Give this to the messenger that will be returning to Imladris. Elrond should know of our efforts to help him, and of the continued whereabouts of Elrohir."

"Yes, aranin," said Ithilion, taking the missive from his king and failing quite miserably at containing his relief.

Thranduil chuckled at this, but it swiftly turned sad. "You should probably inform Elrohir and his party as well," he added. "No doubt they are lying awake in their rooms wondering exactly how much help we shall be to them."

"Yes, aranin." Ithilion bowed respectfully and departed to do his King's bidding.

Thranduil sighed, his gaze once more falling on the portrait though this time he did not move from his seat. His likeness stood regally upon a riser beside his lovely, smiling wife. They each rested an outside hand upon the shoulder of a smiling son, standing on the ground side by side, with only the barest difference in height despite their vast difference of age. Both were smiling brightly.

For all his remaining years on Arda, Thranduil will never be certain why he did not smile for the artist.

Whatever his feelings towards the edain, or even towards Elrond Peredhil – which were far more complicated than he often dared to fully contemplate – Thranduil always considered himself a father first, and as a father, he could not in good conscience refuse Elrohir's requests.

* * *

Glorfindel's party rode south along the Great Road. However, it soon became apparent that Estel had not passed that way, at least according to the tale of tracks. The logical choice then was to turn back, their objective obviously not attainable by continuing south as Estel was not headed south; however Glorfindel seemed to take an inordinate amount of time wrestling with this decision. Fortunately the elves on his contingent were all quite familiar with the unusual and yet highly effective quirks of their captain, and so remained respectfully and patiently silent on the matter.

In the end, Glorfindel decided to send three of his warriors back to Imladris. Elrond should be informed that there was no tangible evidence along the southward road, even if his strategus's instincts told him that south was the correct direction anyway, regardless of what the tracks were saying. It went without saying that Lord Elrond would not object in the slightest, for Glorfindel he trusted without question.

This left the Vanya with six elves to his name and so therefore the smaller party would be able to travel at greater speeds, and Glorfindel was absolutely certain that speed was of the utmost importance. The seven of them followed the road south towards Lothlórien at the greatest speeds they were able while still paying close attention to the road and the surrounding forests, for Glorfindel was certain that eventually Estel's tracks _would_ rejoin this road. The Heir of Elendil was headed south – the Vanya knew it in his bones.

Two days after Glorfindel had split his party his decision was proven fortuitous. The unmistakable tracks of Estel's mare veered in from the forests to the left and rejoined the Southern Road. The elves rejoiced at the discovery because it not only meant that their captain had been proven right, _again_, but also because they all knew that they now had serious chances of catching up to Estel. Indeed, even Glorfindel perceived that it was only a matter of time.

Their company followed the tracks southward for twenty-seven days. However, Ilúvatar appeared to be against them, for the drought then chose to conclude itself in spectacular fashion. A fierce thunderstorm cost the search party a day of traveling, and in the calm of its aftermath the elves were disheartened when not even Glorfindel could discern the tracks at the crossroads. Did Estel take the path to the Redhorn Gate, or did he continue south towards the Gap of Rohan?

Several of the horses and even one of the elves had been injured during the storm. Now Glorfindel had no choice but to continue on the road towards Lothlórien, hoping that somewhere they would see a sign of Estel's passing.

Ten days later, Glorfindel led his elves over the Redhorn Pass, and at this point he was dead certain that Estel had not taken this road. His countenance was grim as his hopes dwindled, for where would Estel go if not to Lothlórien? If Estel had stayed on the road, would he have gone as far as the Gap of Rohan? These were questions that Glorfindel hoped that Galadriel could answer, and three days later he and his company rode into the Golden Wood for that very purpose.

Also, the Vanya thought with much chagrin, that he must now inform those who love Estel as a grandson of what had transpired. And Glorfindel, warrior and balrog-slayer who has survived death, Mandos, and the Máhanaxar positively _shuddered_ at the thought of facing Arwen.

In due course the Galadhrim descended from the trees to greet the unexpected guests. Unfortunately, the Imladris elves had no time for pleasantries, and Glorfindel bade the Galadhrim to see to lodging and refreshment for his entourage while he himself was bound for council with the Lord and Lady. Not even Elrond 'informed' the Galadhrim of an unscheduled meeting with their Lord and Lady, and only Glorfindel of Tirion, emissary of the Valar on behalf of the house of Finwë could have gotten away with such a feat, for it was only when invoking his true station that he could command _Artanis_' full attention. Presently Glorfindel found himself sitting in a chair in Celeborn's small private library, content in the knowledge that his warriors were currently bathing, dining, and finally relaxing after their arduous journey, as he waited to be seen.

"If it isn't the Vanya," Celeborn greeted, stepping across the threshold and successfully startling Glorfindel, who in his weariness had nearly dozed off.

Glorfindel stood respectfully to greet the Lord of Lothlórien, but he had to wipe the dust from his hands on his equally dirty tunic before offering it in Elven greeting. Celeborn smirked and stepped forward to complete the formal embrace, hands to shoulders with the free hand resting on the heart. However, the smirk faded as Celeborn took better stock of the elf standing before him.

"We are lucky to have you in Lothlórien twice a yén. Now you come to us twice in one year, and for some reason I feel that I should be more concerned than pleased at this occurrence."

Glorfindel laughed as he reseated himself by the fire. "You see me more often than that, Sinda," he teased, though his voice was tired.

"Yes, but only because I travel to Imladris to visit my grandchildren," Celeborn countered.

Glorfindel conceded the point with a nod of his head. "Where is your wife?" he asked, unabashed, the only elf in Middle-earth – with perhaps the exception of Círdan – who could be so bold.

Celeborn, of course, was unperturbed. "At present she is trying to comfort Arwen, for her dreams have been disquiet as of late," he explained, the conversational tone of his voice betrayed only by the seriousness in his eyes.

Glorfindel nodded gravely. "In that case, Arwen will most likely accompany her grandmother to this meeting. I would rather say what I must only once, so if you don't mind waiting…"

"Not at all," Celeborn answered before seating himself in the chair across from the Vanya.

Glorfindel went back to stewing in his own thoughts for the time being, and Celeborn eyed him closely. One does not have to be counted amongst the wise in order to see that the Vanya was clearly worried about something. Celeborn might have been able to guess at what it was, but he chose to say nothing until his wife and granddaughter arrived.

They were not kept waiting long.

"_Suilad_, Glorfindel."

Glorfindel, not startled this time, turned his head to see Arwen enter the room, followed by Galadriel.

"_Suilad_, Arwen," said Glorfindel, rising to greet them as Celeborn followed suit. "_Mae govannen_."

Arwen stepped forward and hugged her former mentor, but Glorfindel was stiff in returning it. "You are stiff in returning my embrace, Glorfindel," she pointed out as she pulled away. "That means that there is something troubling you."

Glorfindel tried his best to offer an unassuming grin. "Am I really that easy to read, Undómiel?"

"Only to those who have dwelt under the same roof with you for over fifteen _yéni_," Arwen answered, a slight smile dancing about her lips. However, it faded just as quickly as it came. She fixed him with a piercing stare that reminded him suddenly not of her father, but of Celebrían. "Your business here concerns Estel."

After a brief pause Glorfindel nodded, his expression trying to be neutral. Arwen quickly looked over to her grandparents, who had come to stand side by side, yet heir faces were indiscernible. She looked back to Glorfindel.

"Something has happened," Arwen said, again not really questioning.

Once again, Glorfindel merely nodded. Truly a daughter of Elrond, nothing of her concern was displayed save for in her eyes, and only those who'd dwelt beneath the same roof as the Evenstar for over fifteen yéni would have been able to discern it. "Perhaps you should sit down, Arwen," Glorfindel directed, his tone grave as he gestured to Celeborn's vacated chair.

Like the slow melting of an ice floe Arwen's façade of confidence began to slip first from her face, and then from her body as she made her way towards the empty seat only for her legs to then suddenly decide that they did not want to support her. This Arwen sat down rather in a heap, and in that moment she seemed to Glorfindel an elfling again as she stared up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

"What has happened?" she asked breathlessly. "What has happened to my love?"

* * *

The three elves Glorfindel initially sent north came upon Elladan's party as they reached the ford of Bruinen, and so Elladan suddenly had twelve elves under his command. One he sent back to Imladris to report their collective findings, mainly that that Estel had ridden to the Dúnedain camp in advance of taking a leave of absence from his duties there, and also that Estel did not disclose his reasons for his sabbatical, nor did he speak with Gilrean before departing for parts unknown, and that lastly – and for whatever reason – Glorfindel expected to find traces of him further to the south.

Elladan put his faith in Glorfindel and began sweeping the forests along the Bruinen's southern banks to see if any trace could be found of Estel, perhaps attempting to confuse any searchers by sticking to the ranger paths as opposed to the main roads. Unfortunately the signs were far too old to be distinguished as Estel's, especially after the thunderstorms had torn through the area. Cursing this misfortune, Elladan was forced now to divide his party.

Elladan sent an elf to each of the three major towns of men: Bree, Staddle, and Combe, to search for Estel, and they were to take as many Dúnedain volunteers as they were able to gather back at the ranger camp. Two others were sent with instructions to have even more Dúnedain volunteers escort them on hidden paths around the Shire and it's neighboring provinces. One was sent to the dwarves in Ered Luin, and another to Lindon. Of five remaining elves, he sent two to Mirkwood to inform Elrohir and Legolas of what they have discovered so far, and two to Lothlórien on the same errand. The last elf was sent back to Imladris, to update Lord Elrond as to the progress – and re-division – of the search parties. Elladan himself rode alone to Mithlond for he would not chance inflicting sea-longing on anyone else.

One by one Elladan's searchers returned to Imladris. No sightings of Estel had been reported, but the rangers swore to keep as many eyes out for him as they could spare, especially around the Shire and in the towns of men. Similar promises were given by the dwarves of Ered Luin, for they held the sons of Elrond in high esteem and Estel was no less in their eyes. The remnant of elves in Lindon offered condolences and too promised to report any sightings, but they collectively doubted that Estel would even think to go there.

Círdan did not sound at all surprised to hear the news of what had happened, and for some reason Elladan was content only in having informed the shipwright. No promises were asked for because none would have been forthcoming. However, Círdan _did_ reassure Elladan that all things happened for a reason, and that therefore these events must have some greater part to play yet for the future of Elendil's heir. Elladan wasn't entirely convinced, but the advice of Círdan of the Havens was not to be discounted out of hand.

Elladan took a winding road back from Mithlond, searching again for himself the Shire and the town of Bree, before returning to Imladris empty handed.

* * *

True to his word, Thranduil offered as much help as Elrohir could have hoped for. Under the guidance of the Wood Elves, Esgaroth was searched and promises were given by the men to be on the lookout for unfamiliar rangers. Similar assurances were given by Bard on behalf of the men of Dale, and also from Beorn and Grimbeorn, who pledged the aide of their animals.

As predicted, Legolas insisted on joining the search. He led the party to Erebor, but Elrohir insisted that he not accompany them in their meetings with the dwarves. A political incident was the last thing they needed, and Legolas reluctantly agreed. The dwarves of Erebor were quite familiar with Estel, though during their last encounter he was quite a bit younger, and they promised to send word to Dale if their people spotted him. The men of Dale could then in turn notify the elves – who would no doubt react more favorably to an _edain_ messenger than a _naugrim_ one.

Finally, after many weeks of fruitless searching, alas the seekers discovered save that Elrond and his sons had many allies they before would not have counted on. Legolas was granted permission to accompany Elrohir and company back to Imladris, for no doubt Elrond would have found out more by now. They came upon Elladan's messengers on the periphery of Thranduil's realm, and though he was dismayed at their tidings Elrohir bade them to continue on so that they might refresh themselves and their horses for a time on Thranduil's charity rather than asking them to turn around and follow the party back to Imladris. All their hopes rested now with Glorfindel along the Southern Road. Legolas vowed to remain in Imladris until word came either way, though it was no secret that he hoped Estel had been discovered in Lothlórien and that Glorfindel was presently dragging him home by the ear.

Alas, the friends and brothers of Estel were dismayed when Glorfindel and his party at last returned home empty handed, save for Galadriel's assurance that Estel had not crossed the boarders of her land and his own unshakable certainty that all along the ranger had making for the gap of Rohan. If that was the case, then surely by now Estel had passed beyond even the sights of Isengard, and had no doubt given himself over to the southern realms of men. The only piece of relative good news that he could offer was that both Galadriel and Arwen were certain that Estel yet lived, yet none could offer any cohesive arguments for why he had supposedly fled so far from home. No Dúnedain had ever done the like before. And in Imladris, Elladan felt that he had failed his youngest brother, for there was no real way to track where Estel has gone. Elrohir too shared these feelings, but rather than a fierce anger towards himself, he leaned more towards a crushing worry and despair over these events.

Legolas did stay on in Imladris, despite how powerless he felt to help his best friend, the brother of his heart, because he stayed for the twins. Having lost a brother himself, he had a good idea of what they would be going through in the day and weeks and (Eru help them) months to come. Though for himself, Legolas felt only a kind of grim determination. He _would _see Estel again. He _would not _lose another brother! He would search all the southern kingdoms of men for as long as it took until he found Estel… as soon as he deemed it safe to leave the twins alone.

Then, to drown their sorrows, Elladan and Elrohir all but fled the Last Homely House, selectively oblivious to how it pained their father to see them go. Yet their so-called hunting trip was a pretense and barely that because everyone knew that they were simply looking for orc-dens to roust out and destroy, but none had the courage to call them on it. Not even Legolas, who'd trailed after them, watchful yet unassuming company.

And in Imladris, Erestor had his hands full up with affairs of state while Glorfindel restructured the Marches so that they might get along without his leadership. The Vanya now perceived that his duties lay considerably closer to home, for to look at Elrond was to be reminded of the time they had all spent waiting for news of Celebrían.

For Estel was somewhere to south, and that was all they really knew.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Mellon_: friend… therefore: _mellonin_: my friend

_Adan/Edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race  
_Dúnadan_: an individual of the Dúnedain

_Elrondion_: son of Elrond  
_Fëa_: spirit  
_Vanya_: singular form of Vanyar  
_Mae govannen_: well met

_Suilad_: hail/greetings

_Arda_: the world

_Yén/yéni_: an elf measurement of time, roughly 144 years/pleural

_Aran_: king, therefore _Aranin_: "my king"- a title

_Sinda_: singular of Sindar

_Naugrim_: Elven term for dwarves

_Artanis_: Galadriel's birth name, given by her father

**Notes:**

- _On Oropher and Celeborn_: From what I have read in _Unfinished Tales _I believe that these two elves were the highest ranking of Thingol's people to survive the sack of Doriath. In the Second Age they both dwelt in Lindon under the lordship of King Gil-Galad. However, Celeborn adjusted to this transition more easily than Oropher because his marriage to Galadriel allowed him to see that not all Noldor were like the sons of Fëanor and their followers. Oropher, however, remained distrustful of all Noldor and chafed at being seated under Gil-Galad's rule.

- _On Mirkwood_: It is not stated in the _Tale of Years_ when exactly in the Second Age Oropher and his followers left Lindon to cross the Misty Mountains and enter Greenwood the Great. It is most likely that this exodus occurred early in the Second Age, during the time of deceitful peace (before Sauron appeared). Even more likely is that Oropher left before Celeborn and Galadriel went east to settle Eregion. Essentially, Oropher gathered a group of likeminded followers (including his son Thranduil) and left Lindon and the rule of Gil-Galad to officially try and make contact with their distant kin: those of the Teleri who either refused the journey to Valinor or others like the followers of Thingol who turned away en route.

It is said that the elves of Greenwood welcomed their distant kin and granted Oropher, counted as a Lord of Doriath under Elwë (Thingol), lordship over them. Oropher then turned Greenwood into a kingdom, fully incorporating his Sindar followers into the preexisting Silvan culture (one can infer that the Silvan held the greater numbers and so their culture remained predominant even as the Sindarin language subsumed the Silvan, presumably because the royals spoke it). This would account for why Legolas refered to himself as a Silvan in FoTR even as Tolkien stated that the Silvan language had mostly died out by that era of the Third Age. My personal fanon for Legolas is that Thranduil's queen was of the Silvan elite, a politically fortuitous if not politically motivated match.

_-On Dwarves, Elves, and Chronologies_: Technically, Aragorn is 8 or 9 years old when Gandalf, a hobbit, and a bunch of dwarves pass through Imladris on their way to adventure. I find it hard to believe that young, ever-curious Estel did not at least _try_ and make friends with the hobbit and dwarves.


	4. Ch 3: My name is Thorongil

Aragorn rode south for days, and then weeks. He was glad that he decided to inform the rangers of his departure. After all, all he had to do was insinuate that it was an important mission and the rangers would agree without question as they accepted that _Estel_'s duties to Imladris would also require his attentions from time to time. Aragorn knew that he was deliberately lying to Bowen, someone he would never have dreamt of lying to before, but at the time he didn't much care. All that mattered was putting as much distance between himself and the northern lands of men and elves as quickly as possible, and to his rationalizations, even taking the time to inform the rangers, something he did out of _duty_, was too much time indeed.

Aragorn didn't sleep well for days on this journey, always fearing or half-imagining the beat of Elven horses coming up fast behind him. Part of him actually wanted this to happen, for his brothers to ride out and drag him back by the ear, proving once and for all that they still loved him.

The larger part of him knew that they wouldn't come. After all, he was the insolent _adan_ who tried to steal their sister from them.

Part of him also regretted not saying goodbye to his mother. Even though they weren't as close as probably either of them would have liked, he knew that she loved him dearly, and this parting would be very bitter for her. For the longest time Aragorn couldn't bring himself to understand why she had resorted to such drastic measures in order to keep him safe. For the longest time, part of him always feared that he was somehow to blame for her leaving; that somehow he had driven her away.

Only six years ago, when Estel learned that he was also Aragorn, did he finally learn that his mother had not died while visiting kin as he'd been told. Rather she'd gone back the Dúnedain to _live_, a deliberate and public life spreading the word that she was the widow of Arathorn, the last of the hereditary chieftains, and that their son had perished with her husband, and that's why the leadership fell on Bowen, widower of Arathorn's late cousin…

Aragorn had been hurt then, hurt and angry that she had abandoned him on the mercy of Imladris at the tender age of five, all to protect the heir of Isildur. All to give her son the chance at a normal, happy childhood, and a family that loved him. In time he came to intellectually understand her choice—and the sacrifice that it had been—yet even still, there would always be a small part of him that would remain the five-year-old, pained, angry, and resentful of his mother's abandonment.

Even still, his leaving now, without even saying goodbye, for what at this moment Aragorn _knew_ to be forever, was a much more cruel departure than ever hers had been. At least she had hugged him close, told him she loved him, and reassured him that they would see each other again before she left that fateful day…

But Estel had betrayed his Elven family. As the _adan _that dared to love the Evenstar, somehow it seemed fitting that he should also seek to avenge the five-year-old that cried each night for nearly a year. Wounding his mother so, in the light of all else, was merely bitter icing for the cake.

* * *

By some measure of luck (either good or bad, depending on one's point of view), Aragorn had managed to avoid the rainstorms that hindered Glorfindel's party, even though he was barely a day's ride ahead of them. He continued to ride south, crossing the Grayflood with difficulty at Tharbad on a dreary and overcast day while the Elven search party was forced to seek shelter. This put him two days ahead, but even at this distance, it would still have been possible for Glorfindel to overtake him, relying on Elven endurance and sheer strength of will. However, at this point the road diverged, forking off to the Redhorn Pass. Aragorn did not even so much as look up at the mountain, lest the pass tempt him more than he could resist, to Lothlórien and his further ruin. He stayed on his course on the South Road, making for the Gap of Rohan. 

Alas, after the storm, there were no discernable tracks for Glorfindel's party to follow, and being desperately in need of rest and provisions, he did not split them up, but rather turned their course east through Erigion and over the Redhorn to Lothlórien. It wasn't until many years afterwards that Glorfindel learned just how closely he came to overtaking Estel in his mad dash southwards. But the horses needed rest, and there had been injuries from flying debris in the storm, and there were no tracks to follow, and Arwen dwelt currently in Lothlórien…

When Glorfindel and his party left Lothlórien, Aragorn had already made it south of Mathedras, that last peak of the Misty Mountains. When Glorfindel finally returned to Imladris empty handed, Aragorn wandering through Rohan near the River Entwash.

Aragorn had felt his mood lighten even as he crossed the Fords of Isen. He had made it! Of course, _here_ was a strange land where he'd never been and didn't speak the language; but still, he had escaped! Escaped from what, however? That was the true question and one that he ignored as he traveled south through Rohan, keeping beside the White Mountains if his geography was correct, and hoping that in this new land he could leave his past behind him. To go by Aragorn was dangerous, and he wouldn't betray his mother like that. To go by Estel was too painful a reminder of that which he left behind. Strider he would be here; the nickname would serve him well enough amongst men for the time being.

And so, finding himself in the middle of Rohan (or more aptly, the middle of nowhere), Strider turned his horse to the east. He remembered from Erestor's lessons that Edoras lay in the mountains to the south along a tributary of the Entwash, the river Snow-something-or-other. Well, the Entwash was east, and that he could follow south to this tributary and then onto Edoras and hopefully, the makings of a new beginning.

Aragorn found the Entwash easily enough. Its waters were cool and refreshing, and since there was barely an hour left until sunset anyway, he decided to make camp in a sheltered glade amongst the small outcroppings of rock that littered the landscape, where it seemed a small oasis of stunted trees had sprung up in such sheltered proximity to the river.

For the first time since departing Imladris, Aragorn removed all tack from his mare. Previously he had been concerned with having to make a sudden and unscheduled escape, from either orcs or pursuing elves. Now, far enough northwest in Rohan to not have to fear orcs overmuch, since there is no shelter anywhere for them to take in daylight on a march this far for a host of the sizes he has seen in the forests surrounding the Misty Mountains. Of course, those were smaller orcs, called goblins in order to differentiate them. The orcs down here would be taller and broader, and most likely bolder, basing themselves out of Mordor itself. Still, his instincts told him that he need not fear them this night, and so he allowed Ulmafan the luxury of a full dressing-down. At great need, he could always ride in Elven fashion.

Aragorn refilled his water skins, scrubbed his meager cookware, and even indulged himself with a brief bath, just enough to get the grime of the road off his skin (and his clothes). He changed into fresh garments and retrieved his bow, hoping to catch diner. A rabbit would do nicely, or a meercat…

That night, Aragorn lounged by the fire he had built, drying his clothes and enjoying the warm night air. His senses were still on full alert in this foreign environment, but that didn't mean that he couldn't relax _a little_. Even now, his highly acute sense of hearing detected the subtle rustling of the leaves in the tress above him, the gentle trickling of the waters of the Entwash as it navigated over and the stones lining its banks, the soft clop of his mare's hooves as she moved about in grazing, the lulling song of crickets that seemed to be all around him, signaling by their song how there was no immediate danger present. Indeed, crickets were oftentimes a ranger's best friend.

Pretty soon another sound caught his attention, at almost the exact same time that the crickets ceased chirping. Instantly Aragorn was on full alert, muscles tensing in preparation as he quickly and quietly unsheathed his sword. In the new silence that seemed to swell around him, Aragorn's eyes tried in vain to pierce the darkness beyond the glow of the fire, and his ears were strained to hear any new nuance in the sounds of the night.

Finally the new sounds registered. Or rather, the lack of an old sound: his mare's clomping hooves could no longer be heard. Just as Aragorn was starting to really worry over his mare's fate (not to mention his own), the sound returned. Actually, instead of soft hoof beats, he heard faster, steadier ones. His mare was returning to the camp with speed. However, the sounds were too irregular. Something was off in Ulmafan's steps. Could it be that she'd come up lame? But no, she would not be cantering back if that were true...

All musings were instantly halted as soon as the mare came into view, for close at her heals there followed another horse! Aragorn instantly sprang to his feet from the crouching position he had taken. He read urgency in Ulmafan's body language, but not fear. Closer inspection in the firelight revealed the horse—a gelding—to have once sat a rider, and recently. The saddle was well worn, though seemingly greatly cared for, and Aragorn surmised this horse belonged to one of the horsemen of Rohan. He had never actually _seen _one of their horsemen, but he recognized the color scheme well enough from another one of Erestor's books to know that he had surmised correctly.

"Mae govannen, beleg roch," Aragorn said softly, approaching the strange horse cautiously.

The horse nickered, stamping its feet in unease, but the softly spoken Sindarin, along with some sort of noiseless communication with Aragorn's own horse, caused the clearly spooked animal to calm somewhat.

"Mani si teithin, mellonin?"

The horse calmed enough for Aragorn to approach him.

"Mankello túlant, palan-randir?" he asked, reaching out a tentative hand which the gelding surprisingly accepted. "Manke hava dos norer?" Aragorn continued over gentle strokes to the horse's neck.

The gelding whinnied and tossed his head, and Aragorn respectfully stepped back. It was when his own mare repeated the gestured, adding foot stomping for good measure, that Aragorn realized the gelding was trying to answer his question.

"You wish for me to follow, is that it?" Aragorn asked, slipping back into Westron. The Gray Tongue had served its purpose and so could no longer be tolerated by the wounds his soul still carried.

The gelding's response was to repeat the whinnying head toss, rising slightly onto hind legs for apparent emphasis.

"Very well then," Aragorn consented, sighing. He quickly extinguished his small fire and scattered the stones and ashes with a few good kicks, ensuring that no traces of his camp would be left behind. Then he gathered his belongings and quickly tacked his mare, who did not protest being returned to reins. All under the impatient glare (if that were possible) of the mysterious gelding, who continued to stomp his feet in nervousness.

As soon as Ulmafan sensed that her master was securely seated she whinnied to the gelding, who answered her in kind and reared slightly before taking off at a mad gallop. Aragorn simply held tight to his mare's mane, trusting her implicitly to not lead him to harm as she followed the gelding. Belatedly, Aragorn realized that the gelding was leading them southwards still, along the river. He could still make out it's rushing at times on his left and out of sight.

They hadn't gone very far—barely beyond sight of the glade, when Aragorn noticed with sad amusement that he had camped practically on top of the tributary he'd been seeking. He barely had time to consider this revelation before the gelding veered away from the river, and Ulmafan lurched sideways to bring her turn around and keep pursuit. Aragorn maintained his seat with practiced ease, and once he recovered he noticed that they were now following along the north side of the tributary. Aragorn mused that at least the mysterious horse was leading him in the right direction.

They weren't on this new path for very long before the gelding veered again, this time back north. Aragorn began to worry that the gelding had lost his way and that they were doomed to run in circles when the gelding lurched again to the east. By the faint starlight on this mostly cloudy night, Aragorn could just barely make out the outline of a cluster of large outcroppings. Aragorn tensed involuntarily, his subconscious mind alerting him to the possibility of a trap.

The gelding came to an abrupt stop before the outcropping and whinnied loudly. Ulmafan made move to stand beside him but Aragorn swiftly reined her back as he loosened his sword at his side. When the gelding whinnied again, louder this time, Aragorn was startled to hear a reply. The voice was high pitched and panic-laced, but definitely human. Another whinny and another call, and Aragorn realized the hidden person wasn't speaking Westron. It had to be the language of the Rohirrim.

"Is someone out there?" he called, praying that the person also spoke the Common Tongue. Of course, all the people of Rohan were essentially bi-lingual, but Aragorn didn't know that.

"Who's there?" the unidentified person called back, answering Aragorn's question. Now that the person spoke a language he recognized, Aragorn could hear by the inflection that it was a woman's voice. He relaxed slightly, but not completely.

"I am called Strider," he answered. "I found your horse farther up the Entwash. Or rather, I should say that he found me.

Silence greeted him in turn. Then:

"Eorl found you?" the voice hedged, warily. The gelding whinnied again at hearing his name. Ulmafan briefly wondered why this strangely shamed male was so noisy. "Approach the rocks then," the voice called once the horse fell quiet. "Slowly."

Aragorn dismounted warily, his sword loose at his hip. As an added measure of caution, he drew an arrow from the quiver on his back and notched his bow. He kept the arrow pointed towards the ground as he approached the rocks, slowly but more from his own caution than to heed the warning. Finally, in the dim twilight, Aragorn could make out the shape of a person. Then the wind parted the wispy clouds and in the faint light of the quarter moon Aragorn saw that the stranger was indeed a woman, seated in what had to be a very uncomfortable position with her back against the rocks, and a dagger raised as if she would throw it on a moment's provocation. She didn't have the right grip on it for such an act, but the threat was very real in her eyes. Aragorn then caught sight of a gash on her forehead, and he lowered his bow completely.

"I am no threat to you, my lady," Aragorn told her gently, removing the arrow from his bow for good measure. He still kept the bow ready in his hands, however, even as he replaced the arrow in the quiver.

The lady snorted. "I'm a woman injured and alone in the middle of the plains, and you're a strange man with a bow and sword. Forgive me for being cautious." Her tone was anything but imploring.

"That _is_ a nasty cut you have there," Aragorn offered.

"And that is a beautiful bow," the lady returned, still not lowering her dagger. Aragorn sighed and handed the bow over to her, ever-mindful that he may need to dodge swiftly, now that his primary means of blocking that dagger was removed. She took it in her free hand and inspected it as closely as she dared, eyes darting between it and the man above her, who still had a sword. Finally she put the bow down beside her.

"The arrows," she prompted.

"If you think I am going to freely give my quiver to you after already letting you inspect my bow, which you have _kept_, then you are sadly mistaken." Aragorn dared to show amusement in his voice.

The lady shot him a withered look. "Put them somewhere out of reach."

Aragorn released another long-suffering sigh but did as he was told. He set the quiver down behind him and then stepped out of reach.

"Now the sword," the lady directed.

Aragorn laughed outright. "And stand before you unarmed? I think not, my lady. Leastwise, not while you're still making ready to throw that dagger at my heart."

The woman glared scathingly up at him. "I am an injured woman, you are a man. Even unarmed you still outmatch me, so allow me my security."

Aragorn nearly scoffed at the command present in her voice. "I can name several women in my acquaintance that I would not dream of attacking in mutually unarmed combat, even if they _are_ bleeding all over the grass." He tried to restrain his laughter as he envisioned Arwen trying to convince him that he had the upper hand unarmed against her. For all her nobility and poise, she did grow up with the twins for brothers after all.

The sudden pain of these thoughts caused Aragorn to stop them in their tracks.

"My Lady," he said, exasperation and impatience clearly evident in his voice. "I have some skills as a healer, as well as plenty of herbs, bandages, and—I must remind you, your horse. Either allow me to help you in a manner where I won't be fearing for my life, or I will simply secure your gelding's reins to my mare and be off. After I reclaim my bow, of course."

The lady balked at the supposed threat. "You wouldn't dare!" she shot back, a tremor of fear undercutting her indignation.

Now, Aragorn had lots of practice with idle threats, having received numerous ones form Elrond, the twins, Legolas, and even Glorfindel concerning what they would do to him, if, say, he got out of bed before he was fully healed.

"Try me." Aragorn's arching brow hovered above an intently serious expression in an uncanny imitation of Elrond.

The lady remained defiant only a moment, and then she cast her eyes to the ground, her bottom lip trembling slightly even as she bit it. She struck the dagger into the ground, burying most of the blade in the act and signaling to Aragorn that he was right to not discount her strength.

"That's better," he said, flashing a charming smile even as he completely removed his sword from his belt, scabbard and all, and placed it on the ground within reach. "Now, tell me your tale and I will do what I can to help you."

"My tale is plain, sir," said the lady, finally dropping all airs about her. "I was thrown from my horse and hit my head, as you can well see. I'm not much good at moving right now, and couldn't possibly get back on my horse—not that it mattered since the infernal beast took off and left me here shortly afterwards."

Aragorn nodded and reached out a tentative hand, brushing stray strands of dirty-blond hair away from the head wound. Finally he sighed, frowning. "The wound has already closed, my lady, but I cannot see it well enough from here. I must build a fire."

The lady nodded as if to give consent.

Aragorn laughed slightly. "The ground here is quite uneven, not to mention scare of kindling. If I am to light a fire, it will not be here amongst these rocks."

"That does not do much for me," said the lady, matching his almost defeated amusement. "Since I cannot move from here."

"Why can you not move, my lady?" Aragorn asked, switching more fully into healer mode. "Did you injure your back or legs somehow?"

To his surprise, the lady laughed. "If only." She proceeded to remove the traveling cloak she had draped about her, and Aragorn instantly saw the answer to his question: she was pregnant!

"Why did you not say so?" Aragorn questioned incredulously, instantly bringing his healer's hands to her swollen midsection.

"Worry not, master healer," she said with another amused laugh. "He still kicks me every so often. I would feel it if he had been injured in the fall I took."

"How far along are you?" Aragorn asked.

The woman hung her head, and spoke so quietly that Aragorn nearly missed it. "Nearly three seasons."

"Three seasons?" Aragorn asked, incredulous. With great effort he restrained his obvious opinions on the matter. "And what in Arda brings you this far from civilization with a child due any day now?"

The lady's eyes flashed steel for a brief moment before adopting a pained and haunted look. "The healers tell me that my child would not survive the birth," she said, sounding very much a mother afraid for her child. "They say that there is no hope."

For the first time since their meeting, Aragorn felt true sympathy for her. "There is always hope," he said, resting a knowing hand upon her belly.

The lady smiled. "And hope is what brings me here. I was riding for Isengard. Surely the White Wizard would be able to help me. They say that he is wise in all things."

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully. "At the speeds that you must travel, Isengard is at best a week's journey from here."

"And it is another four back to Edoras," she said despondently. "Though I traveled perhaps with too much haste, and that is the reason I lost my balance."

"Edoras is probably the closer destination," Aragorn conceded.

"I will not return and condemn my child to certain death!" the lady stated fiercely.

Aragorn hung his head briefly in frustration. Before he could offer her any opinions, he would first need to examine her, and he couldn't do that from where they were.

"Yet you tried to cross the plains of Rohan, unaided and alone in your third season. Would your child have stood a chance if he chose to be born here? Would you?"

The lady wavered but a moment before answering. "That I would deliver here was uncertain. That my child would die if born in Edoras _was_ certain. Do you not see the reason in my decision?" she asked, her voice betraying the fear she felt for her child.

"Nay, my lady," Aragorn said with a sad smile. "But I see the hope in it, and that is enough."

The lady haltingly returned his smile. "You will help me ride to Isengard, then?" Her voice become a naked plea.

Aragorn forced the smile to remain. "I will do what I can for you, my lady," he answered her. "Starting with getting you out of that ditch so that I may see to your wounds."

The lady smiled genuinely then, perhaps for the first time.

Aragorn watched as she hesitantly retrieved her dagger from the ground and returned it to its rightful place in her belt. As soon as the weapon was secure, Aragorn reached out and grabbed his bow. "Wait just a moment," he beseeched. Then he grabbed his sword and retreated to his quiver. These he swiftly trusted to his mare's safekeeping. Aragorn took a moment to survey what he could of the land in the vaguely starlit darkness. With a sigh he returned to the lady's side.

"I fear that there is no suitable place for a fire near here," he informed her.

She nodded in acceptance. "What shall we do then?"

Aragorn paused, as if only now giving the matter serious thought. "We should head back to the river," he answered at length. "There are groves there amongst the rocks. We can find shelter and plenty of firewood."

The lady nodded. Then, in an almost childlike manner, she thrust her arms towards him, begging to be carried. Aragorn forced himself to restrain the laugh as he crawled towards her, his hands first resting on her midsection. Unexpectedly the child kicked, and Aragorn flinched his hand away. The lady laughed in delighted amusement and Aragor tentatively reached forward again, a smile slowly sliding across his face.

"I believe your child is protesting your arduous journey and uncomfortable position," he offered.

The lady's smile shifted to a smirk as she placed her hands atop his shoulders.

"My lord, were you a woman I would remind you that children in the womb will take to protesting anything and everything. Since you are a man, you must simply take my word for it."

"Gladly, my lady." Aragorn gingerly scooped her into his arms, doing his best not to jostle her too much or put unnecessary pressure on her stomach.

"Your saddle is broad," he said as he brought her over to her gelding. "You should have little trouble riding sideways."

"I shall do no such thing!" the lady protested with sudden vehemence. "I am a Lady of the Mark! As such I was riding my father's horse before I could walk. You will not degrade by stature by having me sit side-saddle like some waif of a girl of Gondor!" She felt Aragorn's muscles tense even as he held her, but she cared not.

Aragorn, for his part, had to bite his tongue to restrain the comeback that came to mind.

"It would be best for your child, my lady. Are willing to jeopardize your safety in riding to Isengard but not your stubborn pride?"

The lady seemed to quail at the implication, and Aragorn noted the amusement that would surely be present in memory at the fact that he was arguing with a strange woman in his arms. For now, he was too exasperated to find the comedy in the situation.

"I don't know how." The words were so softly spoken that Aragorn did not catch all of them.

"What was that, my lady?"

"I never learned to sit a horse that way," she said, forcing strength back into her voice.

Aragorn could have laughed. "And you fear that you will fall off?"

He felt the lady curtly nod against him.

"Well if you do not trust your own horse to the task, I can assure you that Ulmafan won't suffer you to fall."

"Ulmafan?"

"My mare."

"Tis a strange name for a horse," the lady observed, only realizing too late the insult that her words may have carried.

"At least I did not stoop to name my horse after a man," Aragorn countered, only managing to spit out the word 'man' in place of 'adan' at the last second.

"Eorl is a noble name!" the lady defended. "Any horse would be proud to bare it."

"If you insist, my lady," said Aragorn, growing tired of this seemingly unending bickering.

"Why do you sound so doubtful?" the lady questioned, to Aragorn's continued irritation. "Are not horses really people to?"

Aragorn laughed outright. "No, horses are horses, but we shall speak no more of this. If you are wary of riding sidesaddle on your own mount, my mare shall carry you instead. Decide quickly; _I_ surely cannot carry you all night."

"Eorl will suit just fine," she said finally, her pride not letting her choose differently (as well as her lingering distrust of Aragorn). Without further ado, Aragorn strode forward and placed the Lady of Rohan atop her horse with remarkable ease.

"Grip the saddle firmly," Aragorn instructed. "I shall take your reins and guide your horse." The lady nodded, shifting her position slightly and trying to get comfortable in this new position. Aragorn then swung up into his own saddle with a grace that surprised his companion. She watched as Ulmafan strode to Eorl seemingly without prompting and Aragorn reached over and grabbed the gelding's reins, which he secured around the horn of his saddle. Then he collected his own reins in a loose bundle—too loose in her opinion to provide effective control.

"Hold on," he directed, and she barely had time to cease her musings to obey the command before they were moving at a surefooted if achingly slow walk. They traveled thusly until Ulmafan found the tributary once more. The Lady could have sworn that her 'rescuer' simply allowed his horse to meander without direction—not that it mattered as soon as she heard the telltale sounds of the river. Aragorn halted the horses at the riverbank and Eorl strode forward, bending down to drink greedily all the water he had been missing. The Lady had to tighten her grip as she was pitched forward slightly.

"Why are we stopping?" she asked, confused.

"Is that not obvious?" Aragorn asked with a wry smile.

The lady shot him a withered glare.

Aragorn ignored her, instead using this time to survey the landscape as best he was able, trying to find a suitable place to make camp. "I see nothing that would aide us," he spoke at last, though his voice was serene and unreadable.

"Alright…" the lady conceded warily. "What now?"

Aragorn sighed. "Now we follow the river. We should find a suitable spot before too long."

The lady nodded just as her horse raised his head again. Aragorn turned Ulmafan to the right and resumed their journey east.

"Where are you going?" Aragorn heard from behind him, the question laced with surprise.

"Along the river, my lady," he answered matter-of-factly.

"But you're going the wrong way!" she protested. "Isengard lies to the west!"

"But I am sure that there are refuges to the east not far from here," Aragorn countered.

"But surely there must be similar places in the other direction."

Aragorn couldn't stop the laugh and this time he didn't try. "There may very well be," he conceded. "And if you want to ride west for an unknown amount of time just _hoping_ that you are correct, then I will turn us around and do your bidding."

Aragorn heard no more protests from behind him as they continued their journey east. It wasn't five minutes into this new silence that Aragorn discovered what he was looking for. He leaned forward to stroke Ulmafan's neck affectionately even as he heard a 'harrumph' behind him.

"You see, my lady? This will do nicely." Aragorn led them into a small copse of stunted trees that had sprung up between the river and the shelter of a high wall of an outcropping. This glade was slightly smaller than the one he'd vacated, but it would suit just fine. With a prayer of thanks towards the Valar, Aragorn dismounted. He released Eorl's reins from Ulmafan's saddle. Unbound, the mare wandered over to the riverbank to drink her fill.

"Are you just going to leave her to roam?" the lady asked as he approached.

"You think that I should not?" Aragorn asked her in return, his voice all innocence. He was well aware of how strange this practice seemed to the edain who didn't have the fortune of learning Elven horsemanship. The incredulous look on her face that soon melted into one of apathy was worth the efforts.

"Do you think your legs will support you?" Aragorn questioned her, slipping back into healer mode.

The lady paused thoughtfully. "I'm not sure," she answered truthfully. "They feel stronger than they did before, but I'm still hesitant to trust them."

"Very well," Aragorn nodded. "Hold on tightly." He then shifted his attention to Eorl, and she heard him whisper unintelligible nothings in his ears as he stroked the gelding's neck and face affectionately. However, her curiosity was soon stemmed by a sudden lurching motion. Aragorn had taken a chance that the horses of Rohan would be able to follow Elven commands, and he was rewarded by the gelding gently lying down.

Aragorn held out his hands to the lady, who took them absently, still rather in awe and wonder at what a few _words_ had bade her horse to do. She knew that horses of the Mark, like this one, could be made to do many amazing things, but their training had been tactile, not audible. Aragorn eased the shocked lady to her feet. She wavered slightly but remained standing.

"How did you do that?" she asked breathlessly as Aragorn led her to what appeared the softest spot in the glade.

"I did nothing," he responded, suddenly feeling awkward. "Wait here; I must fetch my supplies."

Aragorn made his way back to Ulmafan and grabbed every pack and saddlebag from her. He also slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder and rebound his sword to his belt. When he returned to the lady's side, he saw that she was seated on top of her cloak, which was spread out on the ground below her. Wordlessly he claimed a seat beside her on the hard ground and began rummaging through his things. His water skins he set aside, along with the packs that contained his spare clothing and personal effects. The saddlebag that contained his ranger's camp gear and the pack that held his healer's tools and supplies were all he kept at hand. A glance in the lady's direction revealed her to once again be holding her dagger defensively. With an exaggerated sigh, Aragorn removed his bow and quiver, placing them with his other unneeded equipment. The sword he kept at his hip, but he made sure the frog was securely fastened so that he would have to unfasten it in order to be able to unsheathe his sword. This seemed to be to her satisfaction, and she replaced her dagger.

"I must light a fire," Aragorn announced before standing once again. Silently she watched as he collected fallen branches and kindling and brought the bundle into a pile not far from where she was sitting. He then gathered a few stones from the riverbank to make an enclosure for the fire. With startling efficiency, the circle and the kindling were prepared. Aragorn paid the lady no heed as he fished in his camping saddlebag for his flint rocks. A half-breath later and the fire was started; another few seconds and it was decently sized, crackling merrily and producing a warm and reassuring glow.

"Now that we have the fire," the lady interrupted their relatively easy silence. "Would you mind securing my horse?"

"I will tend the horses after I tend to your injuries, my lady," Aragorn answered, no room for argument in his casual tone. He didn't say another word as he grabbed the small pan from his saddlebag and carried it to the river. This he filled with water and set to heat on the largest, flattest stone that surrounded his fire.

"You seem to know what you're doing," the lady offered, not liking the silence that had settled between them.

"I had good teachers," was Aragorn's casual reply. He was busy crushing athelas leaves between his fingers so that they may be added to the water.

"What is that?" she asked, undaunted.

"In the Common Tongue it's called _King's Foil_. It helps to treat fevers and infections. I will bathe your wounds in this solution." The athelas-laced water was left to heat while Aragorn returned to his pack and began taking inventory of his bandages.

"I've never heard of it."

"I cannot help that, my lady."

Finally the lady could take no more of their halting conversation, and chose to confront him on it directly. "Are you always this conversational?"

The question, laced with sarcasm and frustration, caught Aragorn completely off guard. This he masked with another infuriatingly casual reply.

"What would you have us talk about, my lady, while I look to your hurts?"

"For starters, you can stop with the 'my lady-ing'. My name is Bretta." Her continued efforts to melt the ice between them were oddly touching to Aragorn. He brought one hand to rest over his heart and bowed slightly in respectable Elvish greeting.

"A star shines upon the hour of our meeting, Lady Bretta."

This greeting was strange custom to her, but she took it in stride. She attempted to mimic the gesture, but her lack of practice and her pregnancy made the attempt quite awkward. If she expected Aragorn to laugh, she was disappointed, for he smiled warmly at her.

"I will treat your wounds now," he said through that smile, and then he retrieved the pan of steaming water from the fireside.

"That smells wonderfully," said Bretta, inhaling deeply.

"The vapors also act as slight muscle relaxants," Aragorn offered. He then grabbed a clean rag and dipped it in the water. "Would you mind taming your hair?"

Bretta blushed and drew her hair back, allowing Aragorn better access to the gash in her forehead.

"This may sting a bit."

Bretta screwed up her face in anticipation and Aragorn lightly dabbed the wet rag on the wound. It did sting, but not unbearably so, and Bretta relaxed a little. Aragorn's face was the picture of concentration as he cleaned the dried blood away from the wound. It wasn't a terribly deep gash, nor was it overly long; just large enough to bleed profusely as most head wounds are wont to do. Before Bretta knew it, the oddly simultaneous stinging-soothing touch of the rag was replaced by the soft, clean feeling of a bandage being wound around her head.

"The wound has completely closed," Aragorn informed. "This is more to prevent infection in the healing skin."

"Thank you." Bretta smiled warmly, and something in Aragorn's gaze made her blush slightly and drop her eyes.

"Where else do you hurt?" Aragorn asked, still in full healer mode. By now he was painfully aware of how Bretta may be interpreting his bedside manner, but treating her wounds was his first and foremost priority.

"Aside from the general pains that go with pregnancy, and the general aches of traveling this day, nowhere overmuch," Bretta answered after some thought.

Aragorn frowned. "Are you sure that is all? I mean, are you sure those pains are normal for you?"

Bretta knew what he was asking, and nodded. "I have not yet felt the birthing pains," she told him. "He kicks and shifts often enough, and I feel a tightness in my belly as though I'm being stretched. My legs and ankles are swollen, and my back will most likely never forgive me."

Aragorn took the litany at face value. "Describe this tightness, Bretta," he asked in a coaxing way.

Bretta knew what he was after and dropped her gaze to the ground. She was silent for several minutes.

"It means my baby is sideways, sir," she said, refusing to make eye contact. "He will not turn either way, and I am due before the moon is full."

Aragorn sat back on his heels, nodding slightly and gravely. He spared a glance at the waxing quarter moon.

"I understand your desperation now," he said, the first thing he thought of. The healers were correct to assume that the baby would not survive a birth that wrenched him arm-first from the womb. Of course, neither would Bretta survive, but that was a fact she casually chose to omit.

"Surely you see why I must seek the White Wizard's aid," she said pleadingly. "I have naught to lose and my child's life to gain!"

Aragorn frowned in concentration. They would never make it as far as Isengard, and to attempt to gallop there would only induce the birth faster. It was doubtful they would even make it to Edoras. For the first time (that he allowed himself to admit), Aragorn greatly wished Lord Elrond were here. There was no finer healer in all of Arda. There was a potion that would entice the baby to turn the correct way, but knowing of such a tonic and being able to create it from memory were two separate things. Oh how he wished for the guidance of his father!

"I must see how far along you really are," Aragorn said at length. This he did know how to do, having assisted in a birth at the ranger camp last spring. Of course, he merely _assisted_ Elladan in delivering the child, but it counted as experience none the less.

"I have told you how far along I am," said Bretta, confused.

Aragorn tried valiantly to find the correct words to delicately describe what he intended to do. He failed in this, and a blush crept into his cheeks.

"I must see for myself," he blurted out at last.

"See?" Bretta's confusion turned to understanding and then surprise in quick succession. "Oh… Oh! _Oh!_"

"Peace, my lady!" Aragorn called out, desperately trying to calm her. "It is a question of texture and color. I must see if you would last as long as the ride to Isengard."

"Texture!" was the part of that sentence that she latched onto the strongest.

"I ask only for the sake of your child!" Aragorn defended, and in that instant Bretta perceived that his distress was real—just as real as hers.

"Permit me my dagger in hand, and you may seek your answers," she answered after a brief, tense silence, her voice quaking ever so slightly.

Aragorn released a grateful sigh before climbing to his feet. He then brought over a torch from the fire and dropped it on the ground next to them. Fortunately it was only dirt, else a brushfire would have been a concern. The nature of the situation made Aragorn forget that tiniest of important facts. The next thing he did was to wash his hands in the athelas water, making sure to dry them with a clean rag.

Aragorn was about to lift Bretta's skirts when he realized that she was wearing naught but a dress altered to cover her midsection. Aragorn grabbed his discarded cloak and fastened it about her, bringing it to hang in front of her and offer her some measure of decency.

"If you would recline, my lady?" he asked tentatively, sticking to propriety to get them both through this.

Bretta hesitated just a moment before leaning back. She supported herself on her elbows, still keeping her dagger in a white-knuckled grip that Aragorn tried to ignore.

"Bend your knees for me please?"

Bretta did as instructed, and Aragorn brushed her skirts and the cloak up over her knees, exposing her womanhood. He brought the torch in closer, but what he could see of the color only confirmed his earlier suspicions. They definitely would not make it to Isengard.

"You will feel my fingers now," he said, forcing himself to make eye contact and praying to every Valar he could name that he appeared reassuring.

Bretta nodded curtly, tightening her grip on the dagger. Sure enough, she felt his surprisingly gentle touch a moment later. His rough and calloused hands did not feel so, and his light caresses, aimed to discern only what he sought for, sent unexpected shivers down her spine that made her blush crimson. Thankfully Aragorn didn't notice, as his gaze was not towards her face. Finally the touch ceased, and Aragorn's head returned to her field of vision. He draped her skirts and the cloak back over her knees and instinctively she shut her legs tightly and sat up. Aragorn allowed her a moment to reassert her dignity as he went to the riverbank to wash his hands again. This time he dried them on his pants as he came back to her. He sat deliberately a good four paces from her, and as soon as she was done fixing her skirts she looked up at him. His self-conscious awkwardness was rather endearing, and Bretta realized that the whole experience must have been just as traumatizing for this young healer as it was for her. She smiled reassuringly at him and replaced the dagger in her belt.

"It's just occurred to me that I've had a young man between my legs and I don't even know his name," she said with a rather impish grin.

Aragorn's jaw dropped and he blushed just as crimson as she had been only moments before. He looked awkwardly away, not knowing how to respond to that.

"Peace, young healer. I merely meant to ask your name."

After a moment Aragorn seemed to compose himself. "I am called Strider," he said at length, positive that he had said so before.

"And I asked you for your name, not what you are called," Bretta corrected him.

In that moment Aragorn was sure that a mother's instincts are bred in them, for he found himself unable to remain silent on this matter under that distinctly familiar gaze. Frantically his mind searched for something to answer with, knowing that he couldn't say 'Aragorn' and that his heart wouldn't let him say 'Estel.' That's when his eyes rested on the broach, secured to his cloak that he had draped about her shoulders.

"Thorongil," he responded, surprising himself by how certain he sounded as he stared at the broach: an eagle flying away from a bright star, both wrought of silver set in an inky midnight background. It was a gift of love, given to him by his tutor Erestor upon the occasion of his first venturing forth to join the rangers. The memory tasted bittersweet now, even as he knew that he would continue to wear the broach as always in honor of the one who made it. "My name is Thorongil."

"Well, Thorongil, a star shines upon the hour of our meeting." She didn't attempt the gesture that went with the saying, and her struggles were to remember it entirely and not hastily translate it from Quenya, but her awkwardness mimicked his.

Aragorn smiled warmly in thanks, but the moment was broken when he remembered that there was a point to this discussion. "My Lady, your child is due any day now," he informed her. "It would not surprise me if he chose to appear before the moon is full."

Bretta's face reflected her fallen hopes. "I cannot ride as far as Isengard, then," she said despondently.

"You would most certainly birth the child on the way, and we would be far from help my lady. As a healer I will do for you what I may, but any chance of survival for you and the child would be found indoors, in a healer's room."

Bretta's eyes were haunted as she nodded.

"We ride for Edoras, then," she said, her mouth setting in a grim line. This scruffy young healer that her horse happened to chance upon in the vast expanses of the Mark could not have been coincidence, of that she was sure. She knew that the skills of this stranger, largely untested, were the only chance her baby had (and she herself for that matter). These thoughts, while not really bestowing hope, gave her a grim determination to at least not birth her child out here in the wilds. She knew her chances lay with Thorongil, in Edoras.

"I would like us to be gone not long after sunrise," said Aragorn. Bretta nodded in acquiescence. Aragorn then grabbed his bedroll from the collection of discarded packs and unfurled it. "It may not be much but it's more comfortable than sleeping on a cloak," he said, indicating for her to take it.

"Oh, I could not deprive you of it," she protested, touched by the gesture.

"I intend to keep watch this night, so I won't have need of it," he assured her.

After a moment's consideration she accepted and shifted herself onto the bedroll. Aragorn helped her to lie down, unhooking his broach so that his cloak would not choke her in the night. Then he spread her own cloak atop his and she snuggled reflexively in the newfound warmth.

"Oh, but what will you have to keep you warm this night."

Aragorn laughed. "I am much farther south than the weather I am used to. I assure you that this night air will not bother me."

Bretta saw that he spoke truthfully and let the matter drop, her exhaustion finally catching up with her. The last thing she was aware of was Aragorn lifting her head slightly and sliding his pack of clothes beneath to provide her with a crude pillow before sleep finally claimed her. Aragorn returned the forgotten torch to the dying fire and reminded himself to gather more firewood. However, that could wait until he fulfilled one final promise: he had seen to her hurts, now it was time to see to their horses.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Adan/edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race

_Mae govannen, beleg roch_: well met, mighty steed

_Mani si teithin mellonin?_: what draws you here, my friend?

_Mankello túlant, palan-randir?_: Where do you come from, far wanderer?

_Manke hava dos norer?_: Where sits your rider?

_Arda_: the world

_Vala_: an individual of the Valar

* * *

**Notes on canonical vs _fan_onical conventions: **

-_On Aragorn_: Aragorn is 26 years old, very far away from home, in a country he isn't familiar with and confronted by a foreign culture. If he comes across as a rather petulant child at times, this is intentional. His confidence in his abilities was always debatable, but as of now he lacks experience, having only been a ranger for six years. Also, while having the textbook knowledge of the healing arts, his skills are greatly untested. Much of this work is intended as a 'coming of age' story for Aragorn, and as such, it had to start somewhere.


	5. Ch 4: Thorongil of Rohan

Aragorn and Bretta made the best time that they were able, moving at a steady walk on account of her pregnancy. Each night when they bedded down, Aragorn would give her his bedroll and ensure that she was comfortable, and he would repeat his examination of her to be sure that no new complications arose. There were none, and the child's time grew nearer and nearer, Aragorn ruefully admitted with each glance at the waxing moon. The child could arrive at any time, and they were still more than a day from Edoras.

When the child chose to enter the world, he would do so sideways unless Aragorn could somehow prevent it. He knew of a method, though up to now he'd only read of it, where a healer can cut the child out of the mother's womb by going in through her abdomen. As the hours slipped by and the child made no move to turn, Aragorn realized with grim certainty that, if either mother or child were to have a chance at survival, that's just what he would have to do. The thought made him shudder, and forcibly deny the truth that he missed his ada.

Bretta maintained a quiet dignity on the road. With each passing day she seemed to grow more and more accustomed to _Thorongil's _company. This past night, she even allowed him to examine her without the comforting presence of her dagger. Aragorn did not comment on it because, truth be told, no matter how comfortable Bretta was becoming with the routine, _he_ certainly wasn't growing accustomed to peaking up a lady's skirts every night, even if it _was_ for medicinal purposes.

He knew that Bretta was afraid for her child, but if she held any fear for herself she did not let on. That was alright though, because Aragorn was scared enough for the both of them. If he allowed himself to truly sleep (as opposed to brief catnaps during his nightly watch), then his dreams would have been haunted by scenarios involving him having to cut the child from her using her own dagger, out here in the wilderness without a chance or prayer for help…

Yet Bretta did not acknowledge her fears, and thus Aragorn did not speak of his. Together they rode on, mostly in comfortable silence, praying to every Vala they could name that Bretta would survive to Edoras. After that… well, first just let them make it to civilization.

When they did speak, it was of neutral, non-urgent things. Bretta told Thorongil that her husband was slain in a riding accident only days before the healers verified her pregnancy. This child was to be their first—and last. She was now living with her younger sister in the house she had shared with her husband. Her parents both died young: her father in the last war with the Dunlanders and her mother of grief shortly thereafter. There were a few aunts and uncles, and a cousin here and there, but none who lived close by.

In return, _Thorongil_ told her that he haled from the north, and this his people were descendants of the peoples of Arnor. Her knowledge of Dúnedain lore was even worse than his knowledge of Rohan, so Aragorn explained that the cities of the north were independently governed, not swearing fealty to any higher power. Plague and the war with Angmar devastated the region, and the descendents of the survivors etch out a living as best they can in autonimous villages or independent farms. He purposefully neglected to mention the Dúnedain rangers for the strength of their fight lie in secrecy.

He also mentioned that there was much trade between his kin and the elves and dwarves, and Bretta, fascinated in a rather schoolgirl way, wouldn't cease her questioning until he informed her that the dwarves were a closed society and taught their cultures and customs to no one (which was true, although he neglected to mention that his Noldor foster kin were quite well versed in Dwarven culture and lore). Of elves, he merely mentioned that his people learned the healing arts from them, as well as horsemanship. He told tall tales of the people of Dale and their love-hate relationship with the Woodland Realm, and seeing how enraptured she was, he continued his tale through the Battle of the Five Armies. Of course, he amended the tale to omit one Bilbo Baggins because according to Gandalf, the Shire and its peoples must also be kept secret, and also he left out anything that would imply that he personally knew the parties involved, save for confessing that he was acquainted with Gandalf the Gray, if only in passing.

"I would have liked to have seen the world," Bretta confessed dejectedly.

"You may yet," said Aragorn, doing his best to instill hope in his voice.

"Growing up, we learned of how our ancestors came to dwell in this place, and of the oath of Eorl and Steward Cirion of Gondor, that made Eorl our first King in this land we call the Riddermark, that you so casually call Rohan in the fashion of a Gondorian. We heard tales of our ancestors living on the borders of the Great Forest, but there weren't many tales of the elves that lived there, aside from ghost stories meant to encourage children to behave."

Aragorn quelled his initial reaction to this revelation. The open prejudice that exists between the race of men and the race of elves was unfathomable to him but it raised his ire and churned his stomach none the less. Imagine, elves stealing human children if they don't come in to dinner! Well, there was that time he was out playing in the gardens well past dinnertime and the twins—

Aragorn shook himself from his musings and memories. Now was not the time or place.

Bretta looked oddly thoughtful. "I think I would have liked to visit the underground realm of the Elven King. The Glittering Caves I have seen, but somehow I sense that they are not the same."

Aragorn smiled wistfully, remembering his first time in the Elven kingdom. Legolas had been so fretful, and poor Glorfindel as chaperone—

Aragorn cursed to himself and once again shook loose the tendrils of memories. That wasn't his world anymore. They weren't his family. _Estel_ was no more, and it was time _Thorongil_ accepted it.

"Anything is possible," Aragorn said in response to Bretta's musings. There was an odd quality to his voice, and she smiled faintly.

"While that is true, master healer, some things are blessed with a greater probability than others."

Aragorn merely nodded, unable to offer up any rebuttal to the point.

Those were the types of conversations they occupied themselves with on the daily ride. It passed the time and made them more at ease in each other's company. At night, the conversation focused upon happier things. After all, no good can come from dwelling upon darkened thoughts after Anor sets and Ithil rises.

"Have you thought of a name?" Aragorn asked as he released her skirts. Bretta smiled, shuffling around to make herself comfortable after the examination.

"I will name him after his father," she said, for once mentioning her husband without showing any signs of pain for it.

Aragorn smiled. "That is well," he agreed. "But what if it's a girl?"

Bretta laughed. "The mystic said that it would be a son, and she has never been wrong."

This time Aragorn laughed, a sign of his disbelief. "Mystic?"

"An old crone who lives in our household," Bretta explained in all seriousness. "She was my mother's nurse long ago, but her eyesight had since failed her. She lived for a time in my brother's house to help his wife with their young son, but she passed last season. She would tell fortunes for whatever coin she could make, and every birth in our family she predicted correctly."

Aragorn tried hard not to laugh. After all, he was very well aware of how some had the gift of foresight. However, it was all-together unheard of in those without some traces of Elvish blood. "Was her ancestry of Gondor?" he asked, suddenly thoughtful.

Bretta shook her head. "Her grandmother hailed from Dol Amroth I do believe, but you'd have to ask my sister-in-law. She knew Fryn best."

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully as Bretta released a fierce yawn.

"You should get to sleep, my lady," Aragorn said with a healer's concern. Bretta opened her mouth to protest but it was stifled by another yawn. Aragorn just grinned at her. Her retaliatory glare was short lived, however.

"Perhaps you are right," she conceded. Aragorn removed his cloak, as per their routine, and she had the benefit of two cloaks for blankets as she lay down to sleep on his bedroll. "Good night, Thorongil," Bretta said sleepily.

"Sleep well, my lady," Aragorn replied.

The next day's ride was spent mostly in silence, each lost in their own musings. Aragorn couldn't tell what thoughts lay in Bretta's mind, though he had a few educated guesses. For himself, he kept his thoughts trained to all he could remember of how to birth an edain child, and what hoops he was going to have to jump through in Edoras in order to give mother and child some sort of chance of survival. As grim as these thoughts were, it kept him from dwelling on the family he had left behind, and he counted that as a good thing.

This luxury of thought was denied him that evening, however. Bretta chose to end their oddly comfortable silence with true conversation (as opposed to the obligatory questions and answers between healer and patient). She asked him about his personal life. More specifically, why he had traveled so far away from his family. She seemed almost like she would retract this question when a dark, haunted look briefly descended on his features. He pushed these thoughts away, however, and tried to come up with a suitable way of answering her.

"My father was killed by orcs when I was two," he began.

"Oh." Bretta wanted to apologize, but the thoughts were hollow even if the emotion was genuine.

Aragorn shrugged. "It's alright," he reassured. "I don't remember much of him. He had big, calloused hands, and kept his hair long. I remember grabbing at it, only to have one big, calloused hand turn mine away." Aragorn smiled faintly at the memory. All of his memories of Arathorn were snippet images like that, and the were all a gift from Elrond, who had pried them from some forgotten corner of his foster son's mind because the boy he had been could not find them on his own.

"What of your mother?" Bretta persisted. "Have you any siblings?"

Aragorn clenched his teeth, taking a moment to consider her questions.

"I do," he responded at length, and Bretta got the distinct vibe that he did not want to go into detail about it. An awkward silence descended.

"If you do not wish to speak of your family," Bretta said finally, "perhaps you may tell me why you are so far from your homeland?"

Aragorn's sad, haunted look didn't abate as he contemplated answering this. Finally he said: "I have a foster father, back north, and two foster brothers. I'm afraid we had a... bit of a falling out... as it were. So rather than stick around to hear of their displeasure with me, I thought I'd explore the world."

Bretta heard the bitterness in his voice but was astute enough to realize that it wasn't directed at her. "Well," she said, sounding as one trying to clear the air. "Their loss is our gain."

Aragorn grinned openly at this. They lapsed into silence for a time as he prepared the evening meal. With a grimace he realized that his supplies were nearly gone. He would have to restock when they reached Edoras. The question was, where would he go from there?

It was during dinner that it happened. Bretta suddenly leaned over to brace herself on a hand, the other flying to her abdomen. Aragorn glanced up, concerned, in time to see her take a shuddering breath, as though pained. Her eyes were closed.

"Bretta?"

She took a few deep breaths and seemed to regain control. When she finally met his gaze her eyes told the story that she couldn't yet speak. Her baby was coming.

"Lie back for me," Aragorn directed as he hastily made his way over to her. Thoughts of modesty were forgotten as he haphazardly threw her skirts aside. He didn't have to touch her to discern what he needed. He dropped her skirts back into place and met her questioning look with one of resignation and slight fear.

"Can you tell me if it will be quick?" she asked.

Aragorn forced himself to take the question as meaning a quick birth.

"That is up to him," he said, bringing two hands to rest upon her swollen belly again. He closed his eyes and reached out with his sense of touch. "Hopefully his awkward position will delay him enough for us to make it back to Edoras."

"But Edoras is another day's journey from here."

By now Aragorn was hastily breaking camp. "Not if we increase our pace."

"I don't know if I can ride like this," Bretta protested, attempting to stand only to have Aragorn discourage her with a firm hand on her shoulder.

"You'll have to."

Everything was packed, but to Bretta's surprise Thorongil transferred all his belongings to Eorl.

"What are you doing?" She asked, her voice sounding urgent in her confusion when she saw him relieve his mare of her saddle. Ulmafan nickered in approval.

"Ulmafan is the faster horse. She will bare you to Edoras more swiftly than Eorl."

This time he could not prevent her from standing. "But how am I to ride without a saddle!"

Thorongil had one hand on Ulmafan's bridle, which he left there as he turned to face her. The look in his eyes was full of quiet authority, and an almost pleading quality, as of one that knew the truth but did not voice it.

"You must trust me, my lady," he said softly. "Trust Ulmafan. I told you once that if she were to bare you that she would not suffer you to fall."

"But without a saddle?" she asked, her voice bereft of the earlier indignation and now only resounding a quiet insecurity.

"It would be easier for her," he explained. Ulmafan nickered again as if to agree. "Come, my lady. We have no time."

As if in a daze, Bretta crossed the remains of camp and came to stand beside Ulmafan and Thorongil. Thorongil bent down and grabbed her calf and lifted her up onto Ulmafan's back.

"How do I do this seated sideways?" she asked fearfully.

Aragorn gathered the reins in his hand and passed them to her. "Hold them tight, but let her have her head."

Bretta did as instructed.

"Now, sit back but lean forward."

Aragorn directed her to be seated on Ulmafan's back with her weight on her upper thighs, leaving her bottom hanging off. Then she leaned forward, balancing out the weight of her dangling bottom with her head and shoulders leaning in the other direction. In this fashion, her stomach was directly atop Ulmafan's back.

"Ulmafan is a smooth ride; you may roll with her gate. Do not move from this position and she will not let you fall."

Bretta looked skeptical but nodded anyway. She then heard Thorongil whisper in Elvish to the mare, who nodded her head and nuzzled him in return. He then mounted Eorl with all the fluid grace she had come to expect from him.

"Hold on," he directed. Then, as if on some unspoken command, Ulmafan took off, easing herself steadily faster until she moved at an outright gallop. If Bretta had had the courage to glance behind her, she would have seen Thorongil bend forward alongside Eorl's neck as he pushed the gelding to maintain pace with the swift-footed mare.

A ride that would have normally taken until the following evening was completed in less than half that time. Ulmafan galloped right up to the closed gate of Edoras still in the dead of night, scaring the poor gate wardens half to death. Bretta was too busy trying to not fall from the mare to pay attention to the questions being thrown at her. Only after the guards pointed their spears at her to get her attention could she bring herself to focus on them.

"I am Bretta, wife of Fargold," she said with as much authority as she could muster. "I have come from the Westfold to birth my child."

It was then that the guards noticed she was sitting sideways upon the mare, who was stomping her feet impatiently in sympathy for her charge. They also immediately recognized the name of the king's cousin, late Third Marshal of the Riddermark.

"Of course, my Lady," one guard managed to utter at last. "Your brother has begged the aid of the King in sending search parties for you. They left two days ago." Just then Bretta was besieged by another contraction. She nearly slid from Ulmafan's back but the mare lurched suddenly and shifted Bretta's weight back to where it should be.

"Where did you find that horse, my lady," the other guard asked in awe. He noticed the prominent absence of a saddle.

"Another rider approaches!" came a cry from above. The guards in the gate tower had spotted Aragorn atop Eorl, riding hard. The light of the nearly full moon was not obscured this night, and his shape was easily discernable across the wide, flat plains of Rohan.

"From him," Bretta answered. "I met a healer from the North upon the road, and he leant me his steed for she was the faster of the two." Aragorn then became visible to the guards on the ground, and they watched his approach with interest. Their stares ceased when Bretta was hit with another contraction. This time the guards rushed forward and helped to ease her off Ulmafan's back. The guards supported her weight between the two of them. The mare nickered in gratitude but continued to stomp her feet impatiently.

Aragorn reined Eorl into a skidding stop right by the gate, though he dismounted even before the horse came to a complete stop.

"Why are you all standing around?" he questioned incredulously. Then to Bretta: "We must get you to the healers immediately."

"Of course!" one guard agreed. They released their supportive hold on Bretta and disappeared to dictate the opening of the gate. Bretta could not stand without their aid and she swooned moments after they left her side. Aragorn rushed forward and caught her before she hit the ground. Just then the gate swung open.

"Where are your healers?" he asked, scooping Bretta into his arms. He discovered she was far too cold for his liking.

"The end of the main street," one guard answered. "Follow me." The guard then rushed inside the gate, and Aragorn followed close on his heels. "Wake the King!" the guard called to one of his compatriots. "Tell him the Third Lady has returned!"

"Third lady?" Aragorn asked amusedly.

"Didn't I mention that?" Bretta asked sleepily, nuzzling reflexively into Aragorn's cloak. He felt the fever in her now and his stomach flopped. If she was that cold while her forehead was burning up then she must be bleeding internally. Aragorn cursed the darkness for keeping him from noticing sooner.

Just then Bretta lost consciousness.

"Where is the building?" Aragorn called out in alarm.

"At the end of the concourse," the guard replied. "The hall bares the healer's flags, simbelmynë wrapped around a spear."

"Thank you," said Aragorn as he took off, running at full tilt towards the healer's hall. Strider left the guard in the proverbial dust of his wake as went.

Aragorn burst through the front doors of the healer's hall to find the room in darkness.

"Hello?" he called anxiously. He waited a few seconds before adding: "Is anyone here?" Just when he was starting to lose hope that a healer dwelt inside the hall a light shown under the cracks of one of the doors. Seconds later it swung open to reveal a young man in a sleeping tunic with tousled hair.

"Are you a healer?" Aragorn asked urgently. The healer brought his lamp closer and saw that the visitor was carrying an incapacitated woman. He was fully awake in an instant.

"I'm just the apprentice," he said dismissively as he swiftly went to the wall. Aragorn then noticed a small trough that ran along all walls and above every door. The apprentice healer removed the glass casing from his lamp and tipped it forward so that the flame descended into the trough. Then with a giant rushing sound the entire room was set alight. The trough contained lamp oil, and the flames quickly spread. The entire room was lit enough to see in mere moments.

"That's a neat trick…" Aragorn mused. The flames that framed the doors swiftly went out again. Apparently the troughs running up the sides of the doorframe were just soaked enough with oil to allow the flames to spread around the obstacles.

The apprentice brushed off Aragorn's comment. "Follow me."

The man led the way from what Aragorn belatedly realized was some sort of reception room into a hallway that was also lined with blazing troughs. The apprentice entered the second door on the left-hand side of the hallway. This room was lit more brightly, and Aragorn could only surmise that it was some sort of operating theatre. The single bed was constructed of pieces that could recline in many different angles, and there were shelves of herbs and instruments lining every wall below the troughs. Aragorn eased Bretta onto the bed without any prompting.

"The child is breach," he informed the apprentice healer. "The contractions started roughly six hours ago."

The apprentice nodded.

"Thorongil?" Bretta called out weakly.

He was at her side in an instant. "Aye, I'm here," he soothed, grabbing her hand.

Bretta smiled faintly before drifting to sleep again. Aragorn looked up in concern. The apprentice was busy lighting other lamps and setting various kettles to boil.

"Can you birth this child?" Aragorn asked with more force than he intended.

"Of course not," the apprentice replied, unfazed by the question. "The master healer will do that. I must get the room ready for him."

"When will he arrive?"

"As soon as I can fetch him."

Aragorn grunted impatiently. "She has a raging fever but her body is cold, especially her legs," he said with as much geniality as he could muster. "She must be bleeding internally."

The apprentice ceased his puttering and came swiftly by Bretta's side. He felt her forehead and winced at the heat. Then he felt her pulse at her neck.

"Her pulse is faster than I would like," the healer conceded, "but is still quite strong."

"Well are you going to wait for her to bottom out or are you going to fetch your master?" This was more of a command than a question, and the apprentice paled slightly at the sudden surge of authority from the stranger.

"Can you watch her while I'm gone?"

"I've watched her for days haven't I?" Aragorn snapped, though he instantly regretted it. This was conveyed by his apologetic look and the apprentice favored him with a soft smile.

"Do you know how to mix herbs?" he asked, belatedly picking up that this stranger must also be a healer.

"I do," Aragorn answered honestly. He stood and made his way to the shelf.

"She needs something for the pain—but not autman's leaf, that will harm the child."

Aragorn nodded. His confidences swiftly fell when he realized that he didn't know what 'autman's leaf' was.

"Also prepare something to strengthen her heart, but do not give it to her unless you have no other choice."

Aragorn nodded gravely. "I will do what I can."

The apprentice nodded once, glanced forlornly at his patient, and then disappeared out of the room.

Precious minutes ticked by as Aragorn surveyed the shelves of herbs and extracts. Most he'd heard of. A few he had not. The worse discovery was that athelas was not amongst them, under any name or variant. Then he noticed a bottle of periac seeds. Periac was a narcotic; he had heard of men becoming so addicted to its calming effects that they went mad if they were deprived, and some even died if they abused the drug. However, the right dose could thoroughly incapacitate someone. They would regret the day they were born when they woke up again, but for keeping Bretta immobile and free from pain it seemed like the best option. With a prayer directed Westward Aragorn removed the container from the shelf and went over to another counter.

Here Aragorn grabbed a crucible. He added four seeds, which he mashed with a ceramic pedestal. This small powder he left for a moment as he filled a flask with heated water from one of the kettles. He heard Bretta moan in her sleep behind him.

"Hold on," he called out to her as he added the periac powder to the mug and sloshed the water to stir it. Then quietly again: "Just hold on."

Once the tea was mixed Aragorn brought it over to her. He kneeled down and eased her head up so that she was reclining.

"Bretta?" he called, trying to rouse her. "Bretta, can you hear me?"

She moaned again and rolled her head away from the intruding sound of Aragorn's voice.

"Bretta?" he called again. "Bretta, I need you to open your eyes."

Another moan and she complied, her eyes blinking opened lazily. The look she fixed him with was quizzical.

"We're in Edoras, in the healers' hall."

A few moments and the information settled. Her eyes blinked with recognition. "The healers?" she asked, her voice tired.

"They'll be here soon," Aragorn reassured. "Bretta, I need you to drink this for me."

Bretta's eyes unfocused briefly before refocusing on the mug in his hands. "What...?"

"It's a tea. It will help with the pain and make you sleep."

"But… my baby…"

"Let us worry about your baby. You don't need to be awake for this."

Bretta seemed to decide that he was right. She squirmed slightly, and Aragorn eased an arm behind her shoulders in order to help her to sit up. He fed her the tea, which she drank slowly. The affects were almost instantaneous and she was asleep again barely a breath after being eased back down again. Aragorn put the empty mug aside and checked Bretta's pulse and breathing. Both were rapid and shallow, and this worried him. Hopefully the master healer wouldn't take too long in getting here.

Unfortunately, Bretta's time suddenly ran out. She moaned softly, even from her deep sleep. Aragorn, who was busy at the herb counter mixing malotira and sage into a kettle for another tea, turned sharply at the noise.

What he saw made him drop the kettle

Bretta had been bleeding inside. As the child attempted to free himself from the womb, something inside of her must have been torn, or perhaps a blood vessel burst. Aragorn was fairly certain that labor was initiated by the release of fluids. Now, in his earlier dilemma he had forgotten this and had just taken Bretta's pains to be the indicator. However, now it was painfully clear that this was not the case.

Aragorn was staring at a bright red stain spreading across Bretta skirts and onto the bed. The fluids were released all right, and they were mostly blood.

Her respiration was bordering on hyperventilation, and her pulse was faint and fading fast. With deep chagrin Aragorn saw that the tea that was supposed to strengthen her heart and help her survive the delivery was now a sticky stain upon the floor. Aragorn ran back to the counter and grabbed a few malotira petals and sage leaves. These he mashed between his fingers, adding a few drops of water to make a paste. Uttering fervent prayers to the Valar, Aragorn shoved this paste into her mouth, holding it between her cheek and teeth just below the gum line. Athelas could be used in this manner, and hopefully these herbs could too.

Once the paste was placed Aragorn reached over to an instrument tray and grabbed a pair of scissors. He had to relieve Bretta of her dress. With painstaking care to not cut her in the process, Aragorn had the skirts to her dress cut away in less than a minute. Her bodice top was tied very loosely around her pregnancy, and she wore a matching under tunic to cover what would have shown through the bodice lacing. Aragorn hastily cut the lacing and opened the bodice, and cut the under tunic from the bottom hem right up to her chest. She was now exposed from just below her breasts right down to her boots. Aragorn fought the blush that crept into his cheeks as he worked to save her.

The healers still hadn't arrived. Aragorn knew that Bretta was bleeding to death from the inside, and that her life was slowly ebbing out from between her thighs to stain the bedding and floor. Her breaths were coming in strangled gasps and her pulse was failing.

Aragorn couldn't afford to wait for the healers anymore. Now he stood with a sharp knife in hand, heating the blade over the open flame of one of the lamps the apprentice left burning.

"Hold on, Bretta," he muttered for the umpteenth time.

The blade was sterilized and heated. Many rags were prepared, as well as silken threads and several needles. Aragorn wished for athelas, but he would have to make due without it.

"I'm sorry," he said, almost reverently, to Bretta's unconscious form. He made a test incision with the knife to be sure that she wouldn't react to it even in her induced sleep. She remained deathly still, however, and Aragorn was able to draw the blade across her abdomen, cutting from left to right, until a ten-inch gash was drawn. This incision belched darkened blood, and Aragorn felt his own stomach flip. He had to grit his teeth against the urge to pass out. Bretta needed him now.

There were forceps on one of the trays, but Aragorn didn't have the luxury of another pair of hands to hold them. He parted the folds of skin along the incision with his fingers and banished the images and memories that came to mind of the first time he had to skin a deer. Oh, where were his Elven brothers now!

Aragorn had just begun easing a hand into the incision to feel for the child when the door burst open and three people rushed into the room.

"Bretta!"

"What in the world—"

"By my ancestors—"

The apprentice had brought the master healer along with some other man. Aragorn didn't pay much attention to the babbling as his hands suddenly found the child.

"What do you think you're doing?" a man with a gruff and authoritative voice demanded. Aragorn surmised him to be the master healer. The apprentice was hanging back, wide-eyed and pale. The third man had come to stand beside Bretta, surveying the scene with quiet horror in his eyes.

"The child is sideways," Aragorn informed. "He cannot be born without help." He had eased his other hand into her now, and with some gentle blind prodding had somehow managed to locate the child's head.

"Remove your hands from her at once!" the master demanded.

"Certainly," Aragorn answered dismissively. He had slid his hands down to find the child's stomach, making sure that the umbilical cord wasn't going to pose any unforeseen problems. "Just as soon as I pull the child free."

"She's dying," said the third man, sounding like he was in a daze. The apprentice healer finally came out of his own trance and moved near Bretta's head. He checked her pulse and breathing.

"She's fading, fast," he informed. The other man let out a whimper.

"You're killing her!" the master practically roared with indignation. He reached out, possibly with thoughts of ripping Aragorn away from Bretta, but Aragorn's elf-honed reflexes anticipated the move. He turned and kicked out fiercely behind him, bringing his leg as high as his tendons could muster. He caught the healer in the outstretched hand, and the man recoiled, bringing the injured appendage in close to his body, a look of complete and total shock on his face.

"May hands are around the child!" Aragorn declared before anyone else could react. "Move me and you injure him."

"What are you doing?" the apprentice asked. He still had his fingers on Bretta's pulse.

"Trying to save some lives," Aragorn snapped. He now had a secure grip about the child's chest with a supporting hand on its head and was trying to ease it free. The lead healer must have made some sort of motions to protest, because the third man spoke then.

"Leave him be!" he commanded. "This man has delivered my sister back to me. We shall not circumvent his efforts now." Ah, so he was her brother, most likely just returned from those search parties…

Suddenly an arm became visible, followed by Aragorn's hands as he guided the child out diagonally from the womb. The head became visible, followed by the chest and stomach, legs and other arm. The child was free!

"Pinch the cord!" Aragorn directed. The apprentice reacted quickly, and pinched the umbilical cord in two places, at two inches from the child, and at six. Aragorn cradled the child in one arm and with the other used the knife to cut the cord. Then he passed the child over to the master healer so that he could focus on Bretta. The healer was surprised to suddenly have an unresponsive child thrust into his arms, but his instincts soon took over.

"Grab the rags!" Aragorn directed. "We must stop the bleeding!" Both he and Bretta's brother were shoving rags and bandages into the womb and over the incision. They were quickly getting soaked through.

"She's fading," the apprentice said with worry just as a cry was heard behind them.

"The child?" the brother asked suddenly.

"It lives!" The healer cried with joy. "Rimbold!"

The apprentice was summoned from Bretta's side and went to help his master with the child. Aragorn didn't pay any attention to their conversation. Then the master appeared into view. Apparently the child was now the responsibility of the apprentice.

"Coagulant?" Aragorn asked urgently.

"Oleo resin," the healer directed. With a nod Aragorn ran back over to the herbal shelf. He could mix the drug, leaving the hardest part to the professional healers. His vision swam when he reached the counter however, and he had to grab the countertop to keep from falling over. His hands were slippery though, stained as they were with Bretta's blood. Aragorn forcibly shook the sick feelings from him. Now was not the time!

Aragorn found what he was looking for, and managed to mix the liquid rather quickly. He brought it back over to the master healer, who sniffed it once for inspection and found it satisfactory. The rags and bandages appeared to be having little effect, and so the healer removed them and poured more than half of the mixture into Bretta's womb through the incision Aragorn had made. The effect was almost instantaneous and the bleeding began to slow.

Aragorn felt Bretta's forehead and was horrified to find it cold and clammy. Bretta had stopped sweating in her fever, and that was bad. Worse, the fever had been cooled by so much blood loss. Her pulse was nearly non-existent and her breathing shallow and raspy.

"It has slowed enough for us to stitch the wounds," the healer said.

Aragorn nodded and handed the healer a long needle, already threaded. The healer offered a look of surprise before a grateful and reassuring smile passed his lips. Aragorn felt himself smiling in return. With a precision born form countless practice, the healer proceeded to stitch up the hurts in Bretta's insides. Aragorn helped by locating bleeders and rethreading needles as well as by monitoring Bretta's pulse and breathing.

"You have a niece," Aragorn heard the apprentice say. So that's where the brother disappeared to. Aragorn smiled, only now hearing the soft cooing of a baby behind them.

"A miracle," the brother said lovingly.

Aragorn felt a swell of pride.

"I can stitch the incision," the healer said, getting Aragorn's attention. "Can you make another kettle of malotira and sage?"

Aragorn nodded absently. When he stood to go to the herb counter, he noticed that at some point someone had cleaned his previous spill and wiped the bloodstains from the countertop. Most likely the apprentice, as the brother was now cradling a sleeping baby in his arms while the other was now seeing if his master needed anything. Aragorn mixed the herbs as before, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to grab a new kettle to see Bretta's brother holding one out to him. The tiny baby was once again in the arms of the apprentice.

Aragorn took the kettle from the brother with a nod of thanks. He added the herbs to the water and moved the kettle over to the hearth. That being done, he allowed himself to recline against the herb counter and survey the scene in front of him. The healer had finished stitching the incision and was busy wrapping Bretta's abdomen in bandages. The apprentice healer was checking the child's height and length and was recording these in a large tome over on another counter.

"Thank you," Aragorn heard the brother say. He had come to stand beside him and the two were watching the healers work on both Bretta and the child.

Aragorn shrugged off the attention. "I'm a healer," he said. "I only did what had to be done."

Then the kettle began to whistle. Aragorn removed it from the flame and poured the tea into a clean mug. This he carried over to the master healer, who set it aside to cool.

"We must move her," said he healer, whispering as though he were afraid to wake her.

"How?" Aragorn questioned, adopting the whisper.

"The stretcher against the far wall."

Aragorn grabbed this item and brought it over. He and the brother held it aloft next to the bed while the healer and his apprentice gingerly transferred Bretta over. The apprentice had left the baby slumbering in the safety of the scale, and now went to retrieve her.

"Where to?" the brother asked, he too whispering.

"We have private rooms down the hall, if you'll follow me."

The apprentice gave the baby to the master healer. The master then led them out of the room and down the hall. They entered a smaller room with two beds. Aragorn and the brother eased the stretcher down onto the bed, and then helped to ease her off of it. Aragorn discarded the stretched against the wall when this was completed and the healer gave the child to her uncle.

"I must go confer with my apprentice," he said, for some reason no longer whispering. Then, to Aragorn: "I shall leave her in your care until I get back. Please, forgive an old man for allowing his duty to get in the way of properly doing his job."

Aragorn offered a tired smile. "There is nothing to forgive," he reassured.

The healer returned the smiled and then was gone.

Aragorn sighed heavily and allowed himself to slink to the floor against the wall. Having been acting on instincts and reflex, his mind had yet to truly process all that has occurred. He was staring blankly off into space when suddenly a pair of heavy boots entered his field of vision. To Bretta's brother, he seemed very young when he dutifully looked up.

"You must be tired," the brother said with extra mirth. "Would not the other bed be more comfortable?"

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his eyes. "You should leave that for the babe," he instructed. "Bretta should not be disturbed as she rests."

The brother nodded. Then, sensing that the conversation was lapsing into silence, he squatted down and came to eye level. "I owe you an incredible dept, master healer," he said sincerely.

Aragorn snorted. "I am no master," he assured with a rather open self-deprecation.

"A worker of miracles, then," said the brother. At Aragorn's questioning gaze he added: "Thanks to you my sister still draws breath, and I have a baby niece. We had all been assured that none of these things were possible, and lo! Now they are real!"

Aragorn smiled at the same moment the healer reentered the room.

"Real they are indeed," the man assured. "First you will assist me in feeding this tea to our lady patient. Then you will tell me just what exactly you did in my surgery."

Aragorn sighed and made to stand, accepting a helping hand from the brother.

"You, sir, are going to try and coax your niece to drink _this_," the healer addressed to the brother. He handed over a mug filled with a bluish creamy liquid and a clean rag. "Dip the rag into the tonic and bring that to the baby's lips. See how much if it you can get her to take."

The brother nodded and set himself to this task.

Aragorn gently eased the still-slumbering Bretta into a reclining position, sitting behind her at the head of the bed and allowing her shoulders to rest against his chest. The healer opened her mouth and began pouring small amounts of liquid down her throat, pausing often to be sure that she swallowed it.

"Does she still feel cold to you?" the healer asked, rousing Aragorn from his far-away thoughts.

"Not so much," Aragorn answered after taking a bit to think about it. "She's colder than I would like, but it seems the fever is warming her again."

The master nodded. He then reached back and touched her legs. "These are still too cold," he said. "I will have my assistant find some loose leggings to dress her in." When they finished coaxing Bretta to drink the tea, Aragorn eased her back down onto the bed and they covered her in many blankets.

"How is the child?" the master asked.

The brother was reclined on the bed, still attempting to feed the baby. "She's eating," he informed. "Albeit slowly."

The master gave a satisfactory nod. "Good. I will see about those leggings." Then the healer left, and Aragorn and the brother were alone once more.

Aragorn lovingly smoothed a few wisps of hair out of Bretta's face.

"You are good to her." Once again Aragorn nearly jumped out of his skin. He heard the brother chuckle behind him.

"I am a healer," he answered, turning around. "Comes with the territory."

The brother laughed again and shook his head. "I've seen my share of healers," he informed. "None have the bedside manner that you exude. My sister is truly blessed."

Aragorn blushed slightly and shook off the praise. The brother then eased the child—who apparently had fallen asleep—down onto the bed. He stood up and came to stand beside Aragorn as they regarded the unconscious Bretta.

"It is Bretta who is blessed, to have such a caring brother."

Bretta's brother was not stupid. He heard the regretful tone in Aragorn's voice and knew there was an ulterior motive to the statement. Fortunately he was spared from having to respond to it by the reentry of the master healer.

"Help me to put these on her," he directed.

Aragorn instantly complied, feeling that the command was directed at him as a fellow healer. However, the brother also stepped forward. They each reached for the leggings. Aragorn then realized his mistake and a blush crept into his cheeks. He dropped his hand and stepped back.

"Forgive me," he said demurely. "It is not my place."

The brother laughed heartily even as he and the healer clothed Bretta in the leggings. "Good sir, you have cut through my sister's clothes and played around in her insides. There is not much left to her that you cannot claim a place in."

This statement was meant as a joke to lighten the mood and even the healer laughed. However, Aragorn did not take it that way. Or, more precisely, his stomach did not take it that way. Everything that he had been repressing suddenly made itself known. Bretta had been lying naked before him. Bretta had been dying—may still die. It was his hands inside her womb and her blood that seemed to cover him from head to toe. And what was that smell? It was more than blood yet less than sex, but it was sour and forced his stomach to do horrible things.

Aragorn's face went green and that was the only warning given. It was fortuitous that the master happened to be looking in the right direction, and just as Aragorn suddenly hit his knees a basin appeared in front of him. His protesting stomach emptied its meager contents into the basin, and then kept up its revolt even though there was nothing left to expel. Aragorn was dimly aware of someone holding his hair back as his body shook with violent heaves. Above his head, the healer and the brother shared a knowing look when Aragorn, unbeknownst to himself, muttered a few words Elvish.

Finally Aragorn managed to get his body under control. He sat back heavily on his heels and the master offered him a glass of water. Aragorn drank greedily after using the first few sips to rinse his mouth. A rag was handed over, and Aragorn wiped his face.

"I'm sorry," came the voice of the brother, and Aragorn turned lazily to look up to where he sat on the end of the bed. "I did not mean to make you ill."

Aragorn shook off the apology, feeling the weight of shame rosining his cheeks.

The master then took the basin from him. "Don't feel bad, lad," he said, sounding fatherly and gentle. "It happens to the best of us sometimes." He smiled paternally and then left to dispose of the basin.

Aragorn shifted to sit heavily on his bottom, his legs stretched out in front of him. He assumed a rather pathetic heap upon the floor.

"This time I must insist that you take this other bed," said the brother. Aragorn nodded dumbly and then the brother was standing before him, a hand outstretched. Aragorn accepted the help without protest.

"Thank you…" He suddenly realized that he didn't remember hearing Bretta's brother's name, and his embarrassment only increased.

"Folca," the brother supplied with a grin.

Aragorn nodded, smiling slightly. "Thank you, Folca. Now, if you don't mind, I think I will take you up on that offer." He stumbled forward the few feet between the beds and collapsed heavily down onto the spare. He fell asleep mere moments after bringing his legs around to lie correctly.

* * *

The first thing Aragorn was aware of was the blinding light. He blinked several times but it didn't go away. The second thing was the overpowering scent of herbs that even his semi-conscious mind processed as signaling the healing wing, athelas scent or no. 

"_Ada_," he groaned softly, blinking.

"He's awake!" he heard someone shout. The voice was speaking Westron, and he didn't recognize it. Suddenly he was aware that he was definitely _not_ in Imladris, in Lord Elrond's healing wing. Then just as suddenly memory surged, and Aragorn sat up violently.

"Easy, lad," came a voice from his right. Aragorn blinked a few times and the master healer came into view. "Here, have some water." Aragorn eyed the glass skeptically for a moment before taking it. Then he sniffed it, much to the amusement of the master healer as well as his apprentice, whose laughter joined his master's from somewhere farther right.

"Thank you," Aragorn muttered once he finished the cool, _unadulterated_ water.

"It seems to me that this isn't the first time a healer has handed you a drink," the master observed, eyes sparkling brightly in amusement.

"Don't forget that master Thorongil is a healer in his own right," came a sudden and unexpectedly feminine voice, and Aragorn's head snapped around. Bretta was awake!

"Of course not, sister," Folca said, even as Aragorn launched himself out of bed and to her side. He knelt down and grabbed her free hand. She had her baby girl nestled into the crook of the other arm.

Aragorn was too overcome with joy to notice the looks on her brother's face, and on that of the apprentice. "You're awake!"

Bretta awarded him a tired smile as he stated the obvious.

"How do you feel?"

At this she sighed tiredly. "I suppose I feel correctly for having had someone rip my child away from the inside out." This was an attempt at humor, but her voice didn't convey that like it should have.

Aragorn's face paled. "It couldn't be helped, my lady," he said, his voice almost pleading.

Bretta managed a small, quiet laugh. "Peace, young healer," she admonished, even as her laugher died in favor of a slightly pained look. "I have you to thank for my daughter. She is worth all the pain in the world." Her smile eased Aragorn's worries, and he finally returned it.

"She is beautiful," he observed, finally taking a genuine look at the child he brought into the world the day before.

"Aye," Folca agreed, lovingly cupping his niece's head and twirling a finger in her soft brown curls. "I hope my son doesn't get jealous," he added with a rueful laugh that Bretta returned very weakly.

"My brother has a two year old," she explained. "Who, might I add, has been spoiled rotten in his first two years. That might make convincing him to share his toys a good bit harder."

"Ah but sister, do not forget that you were largely responsible for the spoiling," Folca pointed out.

Aragorn didn't realize that by this point both the master healer and his apprentice had left the room.

"It is well," said Bretta, fighting off her increasing tiredness. "I fully expect you to return the favor."

Standing above Aragorn, and out of his line of sight, her brother was blinking back tears.

"Older brothers are fiercely protective of younger sisters," Aragorn pointed out, his tone slipping into one that bespoke of quiet pain. He could have kicked himself for allowing _those_ emotions to intrude here.

Folca smiled, restraining his own emotions enough to run a hand through Bretta's hair. "That we are," he said, his voice strained, but Bretta would have none of this emotional pall that seemed to have descended. She had much to say and do yet, and wanted to see that it got done.

"Thorongil," she entreated, redirecting Aragorn's attention from her brother and back to her. "I should not be here right now, and if it weren't for you I know that I would not be. And neither would my daughter."

Aragorn smiled shyly at the sudden, formal praise. "I only acted as a healer should," he demured.

"Any other healer would have been content to let me die. You were not, and now my daughter is alive and well and sleeping on my right arm. I got the chance to hold my baby girl because of you, and for that I remain in your debt."

Aragorn's smile melted from his face as he processed what Bretta had told him. Anything he might have said was cut off by an almost threatening glare from Folca.

"Have you decided on a name?" he asked instead, his voice hoarse from barely checked emotion.

Bretta grinned, pretending she didn't notice. "She's a girl," she said, even as her voice grew soft. "I never knew what to name a girl. I had thought to ask you your mother's name, but your past just sounded so painful to you…" Bretta's voice trailed off and she sighed, rolling her head around to look at the baby in her arms. "I never planned on naming a girl…"

Aragorn blinked in surprise and took a moment to collect himself. "Gilraen," he said at last. "My mother's name is Gilraen."

Bretta remained still and quiet, and Aragorn glanced up to see Folca with tears freely flowing down his face. Aragorn blinked his own eyes shut and rocked back onto his heals.

"Hiro le hîdh ab wanath."

* * *

As a peer of the realm, Bretta was buried with her ancestors. They entombed her with her husband, the Third Marshal and his Lady Wife, dead before their time. Many turned out for the funeral, held the day after her passing. Bretta's younger sister was standing apart from the crowd, singing the funeral lay. Folca's wife held Bretta's baby girl in her arms, and Folca had his two-year old son by the hand. Aragorn felt quite out of place, having never been to an edain funeral, much less a state funeral. Even the king and queen were there! 

All of this might have been fascinating if it weren't for the fact that it was Bretta's lifeless body that was just paraded in front of him; if it wasn't Bretta that would remain forever as soon as the giant stone doors were shut and the tomb forever sealed. He had failed to save her. That's what Aragorn was currently dwelling on as he allowed the unfamiliar language of the Rohirrim to break over him like water upon rock.

"No one blames you."

Aragorn blinked in surprise. Suddenly the funeral was over and nearly everyone had gone. Folca was standing before him now, his eyes bright with tears but not stained his face now.

"I could not save her," Aragorn muttered, refusing to make eye contact with the brother of she whom he allowed to die.

"No one could," said Folca. "Even the master healer admitted so. That is why he and the apprentice left us alone. It was not their place to intrude upon a family matter."

Aragorn snorted. "Why did you not kick me out too, then?"

Folca detected the wealth of self-loathing simmering inside Thorongil, riding just below the surface.

"She waited for you to awaken," he said quietly, allowing the sentiments to be carried on the undertones.

Aragorn looked up almost pleadingly.

"She did not want to pass from this world while you yet slept."

Aragorn hung his head as he tears threatened to return anew. "I am sorry she suffered so, for me."

Folca had not the emotional stamina to put up with this self-deprecation from the man who saved his niece. He decided to switch tactics. "Thorongil," he said with authority.

Aragorn looked up sharply, all emotion retreating from his face only to threaten to spill forth from his eyes.

"My sister would have died anyway. None in the world have the power to prevent that."

Aragorn resisted the urge to interrupt; to tell him that Lord Elrond could have saved her, and that he is but a poor imitation thereof.

"You have saved my niece, something that also should not have happened. In a way, you have given my Bretta back to me."

Aragorn couldn't help but smile at that thought. "You should name her Bretta, after her mother who was so strong."

Folca smiled brightly at the thought, and nodded.

"Aye," he agreed. "My wife and I have already decided upon it. We would like you to be there when we announce the birth in two days time. In fact, his Majesty King Thengel has personally requested an audience with the man who saved his cousin's child."

Aragorn's face paled, and Folca eased a laugh at his expense.

"Yes, the King was cousin to Bretta's husband. Having no heirs, command of his éored has fallen to me."

Aragorn nodded but his face was vacant. He was sure that at some point he had been told as much. "I will attend, milord," he promised, the formality rolling off his tongue as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Folca scowled. Early on he had decided that it did not fit Thorongil to address him as such, and such was a custom between them that would never change.

Aragorn continued: "Though I do not know what business His Majesty would have with a simple healer from the North."

"For some reason, Thorongil, I suspect that you are very much more than a simple healer," said Folca with an almost sagely merriment.

Aragorn smiled wanly, not admitting or denying anything, which in and of itself gave voice to the answer.

"But I will have you know," Folca began again, catching Aragorn off guard with the formality and command present in his voice. "I doubt I shall be able to repay you enough for the service you have done my family, but I will strive to do so anyhow." Then suddenly he grasped Aragorn's arm in a warrior's handshake. "You may hale originally from the North, but this too shall forever be your home. You are of my éored now, Thorongil of the Mark."

Aragorn was left paler than before, and quite speechless at the gesture. Folca grasped his arm firmly, and Aragorn returned the gesture. Once hands were dropped, Aragorn placed one over his heart and bowed his head.

"I am undeserving of the grace you have shown me, Lord Folca," he said gravely. "I will endeavor to prove myself worthy of this honor."

Folca laughed heartily. "I don't doubt that," he amusedly. "You are a strange man, Thorongil. In time perhaps I'll learn your secrets."

This time Aragorn laughed, though it was subdued. Folca placed an arm around him and began to lead them away from the burial grounds and back into Edoras.

"Perhaps, milord," Aragorn conceded genially enough.

Folca snorted. "There is one condition though."

Aragorn sobered instantly.

"Stop calling me milord."

* * *

**Translations:**

_Adar/ada_: father/dad

_Vala_: an individual of the Valar

_Anor_: the sun

_Ithil_: the moon

_Adan/edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race

_Hiro le hîdh ab wanath_: may you find peace after death

**Notes on canonical vs _fan_onical conventions: **

-_On Rohan_: The people of Rohan are descended from men of the north who dwelt on the eastern boarders of Mirkwood. The Northmen were descendents of the "middle peoples:" those who did not cross into Beleriand and so were not in friendship with the elves (the word _edain _original meant elf-friend) but also weren't aligned with the forces of Morgoth or later with Sauron. _Unfinished Tales_ outlines how the Northmen rode to the aide of Gondor in 2510 and were then gifted with the lands of Calenardhon in Western Gondor to rule as they saw fit. The two countries pledged to forever remain allies and have ever since. However, _Rohan_ is a bastardization of _Rochand_, the true Elven word for "land of horses." As the people of Gondor fell farther and farther from their heritage, their use of Elven became more and more bastardized and words like _Rohan_ were the result. The people of Rohan, not at all fluent in Elvish, don't their country that. Their word is _Riddermark_.

_-Éoreds_: _Éoreds_ are a group of Rohirrim. Essentially a noble of Rohan would have their own riders under their command. Eomer explains this to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli in TT (bookverse). A Lord's lands are similar to a fiefdom as I understand Rohan's customs, and so there would be men in service to their liege lord first and king second, aka the lord's éored. Rohan has seen more war than peace, so it stands to reason that the éored would be militaristic in nature.

-_On the People's of Arnor_: What follows is a reconciliation of canonical knowledge with the author's interpretations:  
Before it fell Arnor was divided into 3 kingdoms: Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur. The Witch King of Angmar, who held his realm in the far north of the Misty Mountains, was able to overwhelm these three, aided by various natural disasters and the continued distancing of Arnor and Gondor.

The easternmost kingdom, Rhudaur, fell first and became a vassal of Angmar. Rhudaur, backed by Angmar, waged a long war with Cardolan (the south-central kingdom), backed by Arthedain to the west. The people of Cardolan entrenched themselves in the region of the Barrow-Downs, but soldiers from Rhudaur and evil spirits out of Angmar eventually overwhelemed the failing kingdom and killed its king. What remained of Cardolan was then descimated by plague. Arthedain held out the longest, some 500 years after Cardolan fell, before Angmar finally overwhelmed them and captured the capital.

A year after Arthedain fell an army out of Gondor, aided by the elves (it was Glorfindel who spoke the prophecy that no man can kill the Witch King) and together with the remnant of Atherdain (her king had survived the fall), defeated Angmar permanently. The last king of Atherdain was Isildur's heir in the direct line, but he died shortly before the decisive battle. His son survived however, and became the first chieftain of the Dúnedain as there wasn't enough left of Arnor to be called a kingdom.

By the time of the trilogy, knowledge of "Dúnedain of the North" has fallen mostly into legend, forgotten by its own people, and no one in Gondor knows for certain how strongly the blood of Númenór runs in the north. They certainly don't know that line of Elendil hasn't been broken.


	6. Ch 5a: Finding hope, part 1

_Fall, 2957  
Lothlórien_

Arwen sat on a patch of mossy grass with her legs curled beneath her. Her hair was blowing freely in the gentle breeze as she reclined against an ancient mallorn tree. It had shifted its roots just slightly to provide a comfortable spot for her to rest in, and she was doing exactly that; had been for hours now. This had been her mother's favorite grove, and so Celebrían's daughter was most welcomed here. Arwen was completely relaxed, eyes glazed over but not in sleep, as she listened to the subtle songs of the trees as they whispered to her their fond thoughts and memories of Celebrían. This was how Arwen was able to hold on to a piece of her mother after Celebrían sailed into the West. Now, centuries later, Arwen still took to this grove for whatever peace and comfort it could provide, the wheathered roots of the ancient trees a poor but well-intentioned substitute for her mother's arms.

Galadriel watched her granddaughter with a sad smile. After all, many a time she had caught her own daughter in the exact same position beneath the exact same tree. Long ago the trees in this grove seemed to have adopted the daughter of their current Lord and Lady, and now her granddaughter could be found here whenever she sought respite from her own thoughts. Before, and for many, many years, such thoughts were of her mother.

Now, they are of Aragorn.

The trees have been whispering that the gradual melancholy fading of the Evenstar has not changed. They whisper and mourn amongst themselves, and their branches hang low in empathetic grief. Many a night their resounding sadness would reach the Sindarin senses of Lord Celeborn and trouble his sleep. His wife of millennia would awaken at his slightest distress, and they would quietly decide which of them should go to her. It was a centuries-old routine.

Tonight, Galadriel won.

"I know you're there, daernaneth," Arwen called out suddenly, a wry smile lightening her features.

Galadriel laughed musically from the edge of the grove and the trees rustled as if to give permission for their Lady to enter. Galadriel crossed the threshold and came to sit beside her granddaughter. The mallorn shifted its roots again to provide some semblance of comfort.

"I was not trying to hide myself, deariel," Galadriel stated.

Arwen sat up straighter, allowing her eyes to refocus. "Even if you were, they would have told me," she said in a teasing tone, meaning the trees surrounding them.

Galadriel smiled. "Indeed they would have." She closed her eyes a moment before continuing: "They are quite fond of you."

Arwen smiled bashfully. "And I of them," she reassured. The trees rustled again but then fell silent.

"I am sure Master Mallorn would not be offended if I remind you that your bed would be a much more comfortable resting spot."

Suddenly a root jounced forward and Galadriel's seat shifted. It was more of a love-tap than anything else, and Arwen laughed delightedly, which was the only reward the tree needed. He fell silent again.

Unperturbed, Galadriel continued: "Even your daerada, who would much rather gaze at Varda's stars than sleep, needs to take his rest at some point. You have outpaced him in consecutive nights of wakefulness."

Arwen blushed and shied away slightly. "I cannot sleep," she confessed.

"Your dreams still trouble you?"

She nodded. "They are not as bad as before," she admitted. "But he is all I think about… all I dream about." Then, focusing intently on her grandmother: "I fear for him."

Galadriel seemed to quietly absorb this information. Then slowly she nodded. "You said that your dreams have improved," she prompted. "How so?"

Arwen frowned in thought. She had inherited her grandmother's sense of perception, though on a much smaller scale. This coupled with a gift of insight, which was essentially Elrond's foresight on a much smaller scale, would have assured Arwen a seat amongst the wise were she to live a few millennia longer to hone these skills. The grandmother in Galadriel tried not to think about such things, however. Rather, she tried to steer Arwen in the right direction when it came to understanding her instincts and dream-visions.

"They are not as urgent as before," Arwen answered at last. "It is as though the strongest emotions have faded out. They are still there, like the background noises of the forest; but the feeling is detached… calmer."

Once again Galadriel seemed to slowly absorb the information before nodding. "Estel's emotions have calmed. He is still in the process of dealing with them, such as they are, but he has found distraction from them."

"Does this mean that he is moving on?" Arwen asked, her unmasked fear making her sound very young.

"You can answer that yourself," Galadriel replied, sounding very much the teacher. Then she softened. "Estel is nothing if not resilient. He will meet all challenges in life—whether he would or no, despite any and all attempts to avoid them. Already he is finding his feet on this path that is suddenly laid before him."

"He is adapting," Arwen concluded.

Galadriel nodded, grandmotherly pride present in the gesture. "He may have journeyed beyond our reach, but in his heart—and ours, he shall ever be Estel Elrondion. Time and destiny cannot change that, and eventually he too shall come to understand it. When he does, his path will lead him home again."

Arwen nodded contemplatively. "Do you think he will still love me?"

Galadriel inwardly winced at the naked insecurity in her granddaughter's voice. She smiled as warmly as she could. "You love him deeply," she reminded Arwen gently, "as he loves you. You would feel it if ever that bond were sundered."

Eventually Arwen nodded, reassured. "I miss him."

Galadriel's expression softened and she reached out, gathering her granddaughter into her arms. Arwen shifted and came to sit in her grandmother's lap, and Galadriel, easily the taller of the two, found no trouble in shifting her grip to hold Arwen as though she were an elfling again. Arwen's head rested against Galadriel's shoulder and she felt her grandmother gently smoothing out her hair as she lowly sung an old Quenyan lullaby. Soon Arwen's eyes glazed over in sleep, and Galadriel touched her granddaughter's forehead and subtly pushed her further into a deep, restful slumber that would remain untroubled by dreams.

That being done, Galadriel stood, easily transferring Arwen's insubstantial weight so that she could carry her back to bed. Galadriel stood on the first rung of the rope ladder and a night watchman hauled the ladder heavenwards. Soon Galadriel was gently laying her granddaughter in her own soft bed in her own chambers in the private family tier of the giant Mallorn tallen of the Lord and Lady.

Galadriel brushed a few strands of hair out of Arwen's face. "Este mân, Arwen aiwë," she said lovingly. Then she sensed Celeborn standing somewhere behind her. With a maternal sigh she left her granddaughter to her rest and exited the bedchamber.

She found Celeborn waiting in the hallway, still wearing his sleeping trousers, but at least he had donned a loose-fitting robe to cover himself. "How is she?" he asked as soon as they had returned to their own private chamber.

"She worries for him," Galadriel said neutrally, disrobing.

Celeborn removed his own robe and draped it over a chair. "Tell me what I don't already know," he directed. "The two of you have gifts that I do not. If you do not tell me then I must ask the tress, and lately _they_ have been even less forthcoming that you are." Celeborn was tired enough to let his impatience and concern show through his usually impregnable façade.

Galadriel smiled; it only made him that much more endearing to her.

"Estel has stabilized," she informed her husband. "His fëa is not as restless as before, though his pain is still great. Arwen has picked up on this."

Celeborn frowned even as he slipped beneath the covers and held them aloft until his wife could rejoin him. "And yet she still fears her dreams."

Galadriel was by now wearing only a loose sleeping tunic of a rather indecent material. The nights were still warm for two who share a bed. Wordlessly she climbed into bed beside her husband of many millennia. Celeborn wrapped his arms around her and she reclined against him, her head resting just below his chin, which settled warmly into her soft gold and silver tresses. Only when they had both settled did she speak again.

"The one she loves is apart from her, yet she still feels the strength of their bond across the distance between them. She worries unjustly that her love for Estel has cost him his family, but more importantly she worries that his love for her will diminish as he strives to forget her along with all else he was forced to leave behind."

Celeborn sighed into his wife's sweet-smelling locks. "He could no more cease his love for her than he could cease his heart to beat, for both would have the same affect." He felt Galadriel's head nod beneath his own.

"You speak truth," she conceded. "But Arwen cannot distinguish between a prophetic dream of what will be, and a nightmare of what she fears _could_ be. Her emotions in this matter have clouded her judgment."

Celeborn snorted a laugh. "I suppose we should be happy that something has enticed her to simply _feel_ again. The trees would speak of her fading day by day, though she herself was numb to it."

"There is too much of her father in her," Galadriel pointed out. "She will fade into waking oblivion before she allows her fëa to depart from grief for she perceives that too many depend upon her."

"Aye," Celeborn agreed sadly. "Though I almost feel that such a fate is one worse than death. For too long she had seemed like a ghost beneath the trees, resembling more Nimrodel than Lúthien. These past six years are but one drop in the in sea in the life of Arda, but for these six years we have seen her happy. I do not wish to see her descend again, meleth-nin. I do not think I could bear it."

"And you shall not have to," Galadriel assured him. "How desperately she cares for Estel is proof enough of that. All we must do is reassure her when we can, and encourage this love they share."

Celeborn sighed again. "Still, I cannot help but fear that Estel's destiny may not shield him from fate."

Galadriel bit her lip pensively in thought, for this one simple statement touched the core of her own fears. "Do not compare him overmuch to his distant kin," she advised at last. "He is destined to reclaim the throne of Men, and I have not yet foreseen that fate will deny him this."

"The similarities are too striking for my comfort, meleth-nin," Celeborn practically grumbled.

Galadriel could not begrudge him his concern, nor would she dare to. "Do not forget that Turambar fulfilled his destiny," she pointed out, though intuitively she sensed his reaction.

"Aye," he answered bitterly. "And I watched my king mourn the loss of another child. We are all slaves to destiny, and She is a cruel master."

Galadriel had known her husband's response, even before he spoke it. "The destiny of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is a kinder one," she said candidly. "Though the path to it will be long and fraught with much sorrow and hardship. The destiny of Aragorn may not shield him from fate, but I have faith that the strength of Estel will."

"Estel must have inherited his personality from _your_ side, hervess," said Celeborn, effectively startling his wife with his phrasing. "In this endeavor his stubbornness may prove his greatest ally."

"And Galathil was not also stubborn?" Galadriel reminded him, unable to help the burst of merry laughter as she remembered her late brother-in-law.

Celeborn returned the brief laugh. "In that case Estel is doubly blessed and doubly coursed with the stubbornness of his ancestors. May the Valar protect him, but my Eru help _them_ should they stand in his way."

Galadriel sensed through their bond that Celeborn's fears had abated some during their conversation. "Worry for our grandchildren, hervenn meleth-nin, but do not worry overmuch. Destiny shall guide them, and Varda has blessed their path with Her brightest stars."

"I shall worry as greatly and as often as my heart wills," Celeborn informed her, but already his voice was colored by sleep. "Just be thankful that for now it is tempered with reassurance."

Galadriel smiled tiredly and relaxed more fully into his embrace. Soon they were both wandering the paths of Elven dreams undisturbed by their troubles in the waking world.

* * *

_The Ranger Camp_

Gilraen sat in an old, creaking rocking chair, darning the holes in socks and leggings and humming a nameless tune. The Elven twins had finally ceased their wanderings abroad… orc hunting most likely, given the stains and damage their clothing had endured. This was a scenario she knew well… they had similarly disappeared right after Arathorn was killed. Gilraen counted it fortunate that they were gone for barely half a year this time, and that wherever they went, their protective shadow known as the Prince of Mirkwood had followed their every step.

Gilraen sighed, glad that at least this phase of… whatever it was… had ended. The twins had returned to the camp of their own volition, guided personally by Legolas. Word was sent to Rivendell that they were safe, though they were not yet ready to return home, for without their younger brother it wasn't truly home. Just as it hadn't been in the aftermath of their mother's sailing. All it was now was another bright and shining token of their failure… their _most recent_ failure.

Gilraen thought that was utter nonsense of course. She dubbed it the infamous Peredhel guilt complex. It was not the twins' fault that Aragorn—

_Don't think about that! Darn these socks. Don't think about that now._

Gilraen sat, rocking and darning in the early afternoon sunlight. Prince Legolas had escorted the twins into the camp a few days ago, and though they all sported generous minor wounds, nothing was life threatening or even remotely serious. Gilraen praised the Valar for that, counting herself too old of spirit to have so many cares in this world. She had helped to tend their injuries, sent a young ranger off to Rivendell with a message saying that Elrond's twins were safe and that they intended to stay on and help the camp stock food for winter. Legolas had seen to it that his friends were in good hands before departing for his own home. Gilraen got the distinct impression that he was avoiding her, but as Aragorn's best friend—

_Don't think about that! Fix this large hole in one of Elrohir's toes. Don't think about that now._

She sat, rocking and darning and concentrating on the fact that the twins and the prince were all alive and mostly well. More than six months she sat in waiting, hoping and praying that nothing would happen to them as they foolishly spent their rage, frustration, and guilt upon the hides of orcs. It seemed to Gilraen that the twins, especially Elladan, held all the happenings of Arda as somehow resulting from their influence and actions. And, of course, anger is a much easier burden than guilt.

The twins were alive and hunting deer with a party of rangers. With their help, this winter would be a plentiful winter. Especially the Solstice Feast. It was well that they seemed more like themselves than they had been when last she'd seen them… when they had grown impatient of waiting and had fled with Legolas as their bodyguard into the wilds.

The twins were the sons of Elrond, the adoptive father of her own child. They were Aragorn's brothers. Somehow this convoluted bond had taken the great friendship she felt for them and morphed it into something more. They already had a mother, unlike Aragorn who was denied a proper father and thus found Elrond, but even still… Gilraen found her heart opening up to the twins, in very much the same way that Elrond's had opened to Estel. She loved them as though they were her own, truth be told, even though their lives predate her entire civilization, such as it is. That's why right now she was darning their socks and quietly reveling in the fact that at least _they_ were alive and well.

Aragorn has been gone for over half a year, with no word or thought as to his whereabouts. He had never been gone for so long before, and never without anyone knowing roughly where he was and what he was doing. Gilraen could not bring herself to think on this fact and what it might mean… that Aragorn could very well be dead somewhere, or living a life of secrecy and pain, unwilling or unable to return to his family…

Gilraen refused to think on such things. She was already well-versed in the futility of dwelling on things that one cannot change. No, instead of worrying and dwelling, she chose to trust to her son's abilities that he would not be lying dead somewhere, and to find faith in her son's bonds with his adoptive family, that they are strong enough to withstand even this most desperate of trials.

Trust and faith, those she had plenty of. And now there were socks to darn and twins to care for whose presence would give her existence a focal point _other_ than her missing son. After all, it was long since passed the time when the Queen of the Dúnedain could hold onto hope. And now that Estel has fled—

_Don't think about that! Fix this tear in Elladan's heel. Don't think about that now._

* * *

Bowen was seated in his cramped, too-dark office, attempting to read the opening paragraph of some report or other for the umpteenth time. His mind was decidedly on other things, and… _A Progressive Report on the Deer Migration through the Angle_... submitted by Green Company for the approval of a change in hunting locations… certainly wasn't it. 

The acting chieftain sighed heavily and rubbed his temples, wishing not for the first time that this responsibility had fallen on someone else's shoulders. It wasn't _his_ fault that his late wife, many years passed on, was cousin to Arathorn. It wasn't _his_ fault that, with Aragorn being only two when Arathorn died, that distant relation—through marriage no less—was what had granted him the Throne in Exile. He did not ask for this responsibility, but it was gifted to him nonetheless, and he had been determined to do his best at it.

That was twenty-four years ago.

Bowen abandoned the report and stood from his desk, intent on getting some fresh air. The sons of Elrond were in charge of the hunting parties as of right now, and he would rather trust to their experience and, well, Elfishness, than a hundred reports from mere mortal scouting parties anyway.

Bowen son of Thrador, acting chieftain of the Dúnedain rangers (or steward to crowned prince Aragorn in exile), reclined lazily against the outside wall of his office building and surveyed the entirety that he was his to master. This was his camp, _the _camp; seat of power for the Dúnedain of the North. It was humble and unobtrusive, no more than an outpost settlement to look at really. That was part of its genius, as designed by Lord Glorfindel centuries ago when Imladris helped to establish the Dúnedain as a realm of exiles. Up until Arathorn's tragic slaying the enemy had never discerned the location of the Dúnedain capital, and when they discovered this _camp_, none had guessed the truth about its importance. Of course, with the enemy believing the last heir of Isildur dead, this camp has faded back into obscurity once more.

Bowen sighed sadly and banished those thoughts. Now was not the time to mourn passed friends and tragic turns of events. He glanced at the sun, trying to gauge time. The party from the East Camps would be arriving just after noontide, barring no unforeseen delays, and Bowen was eager to learn if that shipment of wool from Beorn's settlement would be arriving as promised.

That's the other part of the genius of the Dúnedain infrastructure: very few realize just how extensive it is. True this is the capital, but its location was based solely on its proximity to Rivendell, for the elves remain great allies of the rangers and much information comes their way through Lord Elrond. However, this camp is more than just a capital and the seat of Dúnedain government. It is also the headquarters for Gold Company, whose rangers patrol the region between the Misty Mountains and the Hoardale north of the Great East Road and south of the Ettenmoors, and Gold Company was of course just one many like companies of rangers. There were eight fixed companies in all, along with three mobile scouting companies and four attached scouting companies that exist as dependents of fixed companies. The report Bowen was ignoring, for instance, came from the captain of Green Company whose region includes the Angle, where many deer congregate between the Hoarwell and the Bruinen, and whose dependent scouts patrol the Grayflood as far south as Lond Daer.

This complex system of patrols and encampments covers all of what had been the realm of Arnor, and has been expanded in the growing times of darkness to aid the Free Peoples on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains. The system was the collected brainchild of the Lords of Imladris as Rivendell worked to help the fallen kingdom, but as the dark times have increased, new treaties between the Dúnedain and Mirkwood have enabled a more unified front in the Fight Against Shadow. This _wretchedly complex_ system was Bowen's job to baby-sit until Aragorn came of the proper age to inherit the leadership he was born for. Not long ago, Bowen was convinced that Aragorn would not have long to wait before assuming leadership. As it was he had recently been slated to become Bowen's second in command…

Bowen sighed and went back inside, knowing that he really couldn't avoid his duties indefinitely, and thinking on that report from Green Company would keep him pleasantly distracted from his thoughts on Aragorn. His eyes caught the giant map hanging on the wall behind his desk. A new one would have to be drawn soon; as soon as the reports from the Silver, Brown, and Violet Companies were delivered and dissected, beginning this afternoon. And the reports from the Yellow and Bronze Scouts… and the accounts of Erebor, Mirkwood, Dale, and Beorn…

In Bowen's humble opinion, the Defense Against Shadow involved entirely too much paperwork.

He had just sat down to read that report when the telltale sound of hoof beats resonated off the walls and floors. The caravan had arrived! The report abandoned, _again_, Bowen immediately jumped to his feet and went out to meet the new arrivals.

The caravan was a grand sight: three laden wagons and a small army of guards and representatives. Bowen immediately recognized the heralds of the Silver, Brown, and Violet companies, traveling in representation of their lords. Representatives from the Violet, Bronze, and Yellow scouts were also present, as well as the ambassadors to Dale and Erebor. Many other rangers were present to guard the caravan, and Bowen did not come to regret his decision to value safety in numbers over secrecy. With a practiced air he welcomed his loyal soldiers and offered them the humble hospitality of the camp. Then, ensuring that his soldiers did not need his direct supervision, Bowen headed across the camp to the pavilion established to feed the sudden insurgence of hungry mouths to check on tonight's dinner preparations.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Bowen nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been so engrossed in his _discussion_ with the head cook over the proper way to prepare mushrooms that he hadn't even heard anyone approach behind him.

"Er, yes Galor?" Bowen saved the tongue-lashing he had readied once he realized that this was his ambassador to Dale.

"Sorry to startle you, sir," said the ambassador, "but I'm under orders to deliver this into your hands personally." He produced a tattered envelope, missive-sized, from the folds of his long cloak.

"What's this then?" Bowen asked, taking the envelope. It read:

_To Master Bowen  
Care of Master Haldaside  
Kingdome of Dale_

Bowen immediately recognized the name of Galor's opposite number in the Kingdom of Dale; Haldaside was Bard's executive in charge of foreign relations.

"Master Haldaside didn't recognize the seal, but that letter came to him out of the keeping of a trader from Rohan. The quality of wax suggests a noble house, but other than that…"

Bowen puzzled and Galor shrugged.

"Indeed," Bowen mused aloud. "I don't know anyone from Rohan…" He continued to stare into the address on the envelope. He had meant that he didn't know anyone _from_ Rohan, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't know anyone _in_ Rohan. The penmanship was unmistakable Aragorn's.

"If you please sir, Haldaside wished to know the origins of the letter. It is a most puzzling prospect, and if I may say so sir, there's an unofficial pool going on it."

Bowen laughed, easily envisioning shenanigans of that sort taking place in Dale's mead halls after business hours.

"When I know, you'll know," Bowen lied with a straight face.

The ambassador thanked his lord and then took his leave. Thus unhindered, and any problems about mushrooms completely forgotten, Bowen walked towards his office as briskly as he could manage without drawing attention to himself. Once inside and with the door closed safely behind him, he hastily broke the wax seal and removed the parchment contained within. Much to his surprise, the envelope contained two incredibly thin sheets of parchment. Bowen quickly lit the lamp on his desk and sat down to read.

He might have wept for joy if it weren't for the burning curiosity. His suspicions were correct, the letter was from Aragorn.

_Dear Bowen,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Let me then reassure you that I am well. I have been living these past months in the kingdom of Rohan. I inadvertently rescued a child, and now her family seems to have adopted me. That's becoming quite a little habit of mine, don't you think?_

Bowen could almost hear the bitter laugh that escaped Aragorn's lips as he wrote that line.

_It has taken me five months to write this letter, and for that I am sorry. You see, this is an apology letter, and I find it rather bad form to have to apologize again for something totally irrelevant to the subject matter of an apology letter. Let me first apologize for these past five months (or for however long this letter has taken to reach you), and for my own cowardice at addressing you, even if it is only in written form. I really should have written sooner. There is no excuse._

_With that said, I would now like to apologize for lying to you. I said that I had urgent business to attend to, and in a certain light, you may find that statement to have been in fact correct. However, this 'business' I referred to was unsanctioned and entirely selfish. I will not bore you with my personal problems, for I am sure that you have already heard variants on the subject from much more amusing storytellers than I._

_I truly am sorry, Bowen. I hope that you believe that. You have been more than kind to me, accepting me without question and providing the proper guidance while I strove to become a ranger. I know that my last action let you down, and that pains me more than I can express in this letter. But most importantly, you allowed me to be both ranger and Son of Elrond. You did not have to be so tolerant of my needs in this matter, but you were, and with no small thanks to you Estel lived six years beyond the point where he should have died. Those six years meant a lot to me, and in my double life I believe that I found true happiness, at least for a time. I want to thank you for that too; for the best six years of my life._

Bowen had to pause his reading. The handwriting was Aragorn's. The knowledge of events was certainly Aragorn's. But the tone… That was decidedly _not_ Aragorn's. Aragorn, even at his worst, have never sounded this jaded, this… devoid of hope.

_Estel…_

Bowen decidedly disliked the finalized tone of the letter. It made his stomach turn in unfriendly knots. With a pained sigh, he continued reading.

_I regret the impasse that has come between us now. I will not be so bold as to openly ask forgiveness of my misdeeds, so I only humbly beg that you remember that in the end I _did_ apologize. I _did_ try and make things right, even as too little too late the efforts have been. _

_Before I take my leave of this letter I find myself forced to ask of you a favor. I have enclosed a second letter for my mother. Would you see that it is delivered to her? Do not let your anger and disappointment towards me bend you towards allowing her to suffer needlessly, worrying whether or not her good-for-nothing ungrateful son is lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Would you do that for me please? And if not for me, for her? I will forever remain in your debt if you do so._

_Once again I am sorry for the trouble I have caused and the burden I have been. I can only hope that in time you come to think of me as something other than an ingrate and a deserter. May Eru bless you and keep you safe always, and the stars of Varda forever light upon your path._

_Humbly yours,  
Strider, of the Dúnedain_

Bowen let the letter fall from his hands. He couldn't think—too many emotions were suddenly swirling about and muddling his thoughts. First and foremost he was relieved beyond measure to know for certain that Aragorn was alive. Furthermore, Aragorn was living in Rohan, apparently with some degree of comfort. These were very reassuring thoughts. Then there was the meaning of this letter: an apology for deserting his post as a ranger and letting his (edain) mentor down. In truth, much of Bowen's anger and hurt melted away upon hearing the truth of the nature of the confrontation between Elrond and his foster son. However, hearing Aragorn's own words of apology showed a recognition of those misdeeds, no matter how what sympathies hindsight allowed. Bowen was proud of Aragorn for this belated display of maturity, and it was reaffirmed that he, like so many others, couldn't force themselves to be mad at Estel for long.

Then there was the tone of the letter: what was written without words and conveyed between soft quill strokes and thoughtful inkblots. The finality was disturbing, to say the least. It felt as though Aragorn were certain that he would never be seeing his friend and mentor again. Of course, it was easy to deduce that Aragorn suspected that he would never be seeing _any_ of his friends and family in the North again, and that he was trying to say his goodbyes as best he was able; wrapping up loose ends, as it were.

Bowen sighed and rubbed his temples. He knew what Gilraen had told him—what Elladan had told her. He knew that Aragorn had fled, believing that his love for Elrond's true daughter Arwen had cost him the love of his foster family. He knew, as they knew, that Aragorn had fled to escape the pain that naturally came with such a loss. And the guilt that he must be feeling regarding this supposed sundering. And the terrible loneliness and confusion. And the bitterness towards fate, destiny, mortality…

If Bowen did not personally know the strength of Estel's spirit he may have taken this letter as a prelude to suicide. Knowing better, Bowen felt his heart break in sympathy, surmising all that Aragorn would emotionally endure as he struggled to find some sort of meaningful existence in his new home.

The emotions swirled and withdrew, and Bowen was thinking clearly again. Immediately Aragorn's request came to mind. He noticed the second piece of parchment where it had fallen and surmised the super-thin quality to be some sort of invention of Gondor. Tempted as he was to read this letter, it was not addressed to him. Bowen carefully hid both letters in the sleeve of his tunic and set off towards the hut where he knew Gilraen was still trying to mend the twins' tattered clothing.

* * *

Gilraen was disturbed from stitching a patch onto one of Elrohir's tunics by a knock at the door. "Enter," she called out distractedly as she went back to mending. 

Bowen entered the modest abode and shut the door behind him without once gaining a glace from the Lady Gilraen. "I hope I am not disturbing you," he said in amusement.

At the sound of his voice Gilraen started and dropped her needle. "Oh, my Lord Bowen!" She hastened to her feet, haphazardly ensuring that Elrohir's tunic did not fall to the floor.

Bowen laughed heartily. She owed him no formalities. "Peace, Lady Gilraen," he said with a negating wave of his hand. Then he took a quick glace about. "Is Ingis around?" He asked, his voice low.

Gilraen sobered immediately. Ingis was an aged ranger—long since past retirement—who stayed in camp and kept busy by tending the horses. He had been leader of Gold Company during the rule of Aragorn's grandfather Arador. Now he was the oldest surviving Dúnedain, at a remarkable 174 years of age. His only surviving relatives are his great-granddaughter and her family, and rather than impose upon their hospitality Ingis insisted upon living alone. Of course, he could not refuse the humble request of Lady Gilraen, Queen of the Dúnedain, to share his lodging so that she also might not have to live alone…

"Ingis is with the newcomers' horses," Gilraen replied, knowing that Bowen would not have come here seeking Ingis.

The chieftain nodded and turned to latch the door behind him. Never claiming to be a master of subtleties, Bowen flicked his wrist and the two letters slid down his sleeve into his hand. These he wordlessly handed to Gilraen, and she took them from him with a questioning look. Then she opened the first one… and gasped.

"That is the letter he addressed to me," Bowen informed her, knowing from their position in her hand which she had chosen to read first.

Gilraen looked up sharply, but couldn't keep her eyes from the parchment for long. Bowen remained silent as she read.

"He is in Rohan…" was the first thing Gilraen managed to say upon completing the letter.

Bowen nodded solemnly. "He appears to be in good health and with some way of supporting himself," he pointed out, highlighting the most important fact revealed by the letter.

"He apologized to you," was the next thing she said, sounding almost confused.

Bowen laughed despite himself. "Strider abandoned his post with phony reasons. It is well that he apologized to his commander, even though hindsight made the gesture unnecessary."

Gilraen didn't give any indication that she had heard him. It appeared to Bowen that she was merely thinking aloud with these past two statements. Then she turned to him sharply and with authority.

"You have a letter for me." It wasn't a question.

Bowen gestured to the other piece of parchment she was holding.

Startled by this revelation and in her haste to read the letter Gilraen dropped the previously read piece of parchment from her hands. Bowen managed to snatch it from the air before it hit the ground at the same instant Gilraen's legs gave way and she sat down hard on the seat of her rocking chair, crushing Elrohir's tunic in the process but not caring if in fact she noticed at all. Bowen backed away into the shadows to give her privacy while she read her son's letter.

_Dear nana,_

_You have no idea how many stray sheets of parchment are littering the ground at my feet right now. It has taken me nearly an entire ream to compose an adequate draft of this letter to you. What you are reading now is the finalized version for the draft had too many cross-outs and amendments for proper missive etiquette._

_I am sure that Bowen has let you read the letter addressed to him. Thank him for me, because if you are reading this than he has acknowledged my request. I know you understand my reasons for sending my letter to you through his office, but I trust implicitly that he has not viewed the contents of this letter before placing it in your hands. You may let him read it after, if you wish. I know he will be deathly curious though he will not say anything._

Bowen noticed the smile creep onto Gilraen's face as one would notice a salve being applied to a burn.

_As I said before, I am indeed in Rohan. Alas that I cannot tell you where. You understand why, of course. Just know that I am well._

_In my other letter I stated that I rescued a child. This poor girl has lost both parents, but her uncle loves his Sister-Daughter and is raising her as one of his own. In his gratefulness to me, he has adopted me into his household, granting me full rights as a citizen of Rohan. My lodging is free for the little girl's other aunt is a cripple and I tend to her daily as a healer. She and I share a small house just off from the main square, where her late sister and brother-in-law lived before passing away. She is a sweet girl and has taken it upon herself to teach me the language of the Rohirrim in return for my teaching her of the healing arts, such as I know them. I hope that my ministrations have helped her some, and that my teachings will help her to live independently in time. _

Bowen saw Gilraen's smile broaden as it became laced with maternal pride.

_I also earn a little money fletching arrows on commission. It has afforded me this ream of paper, at any rate. Ulmafan seems to like the company of the other horses, and I do seem to be getting along with their riders—others of this household. They are grateful for my deed and are enamored with my strange riding skills. Several have expressed an interest in learning but I have told them that it requires an Elven horse, or at least an Elven teacher. They shy away at this for fear and skepticism of elves runs high in Rohan. It saddens me, but at least it keeps them from asking too many probing questions regarding my past. I told them that I hale from the farmland near Bree and that I acquired Ulmafan in trade, and this seems to have satisfied them—for now._

_Now comes the part of the letter that has taken me the longest to compose. I have tried to keep it brief and simple, for longer phrases are harder to write and would most likely be harder to read, but I fear I have failed. Nana, I am sorry I ran away without telling you. It was cowardly and unbecoming of me. I know what it's like to feel deserted and I would have liked to spare you that pain, though the irony did occur to me. Just know that I never intended to hurt you, and your presence in my life these past six years has helped to make them the happiest years of my life. It helped me to know that your reasons were for my benefit alone, and that the parting was very hard for you. Alas that I cannot offer the same reassurances. My reasons were my own. Just know that I love you always and take comfort in that our parting was and is quite difficult for me to endure. I miss you, nana, and I always will, until we are reunited beyond the void._

Gilraen closed her eyes and looked away, pained tears escaping without effort to trail down her cheeks. Bowen was about to reach out to her but then her eyes opened again and he recoiled. With much effort, Gilraen forced herself to finish reading the letter.

_I know this letter will pain you, but be reassured that inflicting pain was not my intent. I do not know whether or not I will write to you again, for thinking on my past and all that I was forced to leave behind by the outcome of my own rash and impure deeds pains me too greatly for words. I must endeavor to put it all behind me if my life is to continue with some sense of purpose. You may thank Lord Elrond for that—for how I refuse to live a life without purpose. I can still do some good in this world, and I fully intend to do it and prove that I am not such a coward as my previous actions have illustrated. _

_Look not to my homecoming nor to another letter, for doing so will only serve to rob you of sleep and allow bitter disappointment to fester in your heart. Trust my word on this. Look after the twins for me and be sure that they take care of Legolas. Perhaps the future will be kinder to us both. Until then I shall remain forever your son._

_Humbly yours,  
Strider, of the Dúnedain _

Gilraen lowered the letter from her eyes and sat as if in a daze. Her gaze was fixed on nothing and her eyes were haunted. Bowen stepped forward directly into her line of sight but she did not acknowledge him. He kneeled before her, coming to eye level, but her gaze remained fixed and unfocused.

"Milady Gilraen?"

Gilraen blinked upon hearing her name. Then she jumped in alarm, startled to see his face so close to hers. She gripped the arms of the rocking chair white-knuckled and regarded Bowen's face with fearful intensity, almost as though she didn't recognize him.

"Gilraen?" he tried again, his voice softer and her name devoid of title to perhaps coax her into responsiveness.

Something within her snapped then and suddenly she was in his arms, her hands catching in his long hair as she drew herself close and buried her face in his shoulder. It took a moment before Bowen responded, but he wrapped his arms supportively around her and rubbed soothing circles on her back as she wept openly.

* * *

_Imladris_

The late afternoon sun was just beginning to set over the valley. It cast long shadows about the Last Homely House and surrounding gardens and forests, catching in the gradually turning leaves and giving the aura of beautiful reds and rich golds. A gentle breeze was blowing in air just crisp enough for men to notice but not so much for elves to take heed, and the open-air balconies of Imadris were just beginning to be littered with fallen leaves. On one such balcony, Elrond sipped his tea with a soft sigh as he contemplated many things—least of all when his seneschal was going to arrange to have this balcony swept of the leaves that began to gather at his feet.

"You appear to be in a rather contemplative mood this evening," Gandalf pointed out, breaking Elrond's quiet reverie.

The elf lord sighed again, taking in the inviting scents of autumn and noting with equal measure both the beauty and the decay. He was in just the right mood to contemplate all things symbolic but some thoughts were best left unspoken.

"Aye," he agreed at length.

Gandalf smiled a slight, knowing smile. "I wonder why it is, that only the elves of Imladris appear to grow quieter and more thoughtful when the leaves begin to change," the wizard mused, releasing a long, slow stream of smoke from his pipe. The scent of burning seemed oddly appropriate right now and both felt it, thus why Gandalf permitted himself the luxury of his pipe which he usually abandoned in the company of elves.

"Is it always the habit of wizards to ask questions to which they already know the answer?" Elrond returned with a slight grin of his own.

Gandalf chuckled in amusement. "Only as often as it is the habit of elves to answer a question with yet another question."

This time Elrond laughed, but then they both fell silent again. Gandalf finished the weed in his pipe and then emptied the ashes over the balcony railing. Only after he returned the pipe to some hidden pocket in his robe did Elrond speak again.

"Arda is a land of constant change," he said, focusing his gaze across all of Rivendell. "Things grow old and die here, and seemingly identical replacements are born into the vacated places." Elrond dropped a lazy hand to the floor and picked up a red leaf already stiff and crinkled with decay. "Who knows which tree this came from?" he mused, inspecting the leaf as though it were a precious stone. "Already it grows hard in death. Soon it will turn brown and disintegrate, and no traces of it will remain save for the new leaf that will bud in its place come springtime. Though only Yavanna will know the tree." Elrond sighed and loosened his grip on the leaf. The breeze caught it and carried it over the balcony rail and out of sight. Elrond seemed to watch its progress but then his gaze unfocused and he remained staring sightless across Rivendell again.

Gandalf took a decent length of time to formulate his response.

"I am sure Lord Glorfindel has told you the rather amusing tale of the Noldor's first autumn in Middle Earth, and how they feared that the trees were dying and would never grow again. You can imagine their surprise when everything turned lush and green again the following spring."

Elrond chuckled in fond memory. "I believe the Hall of Fire has heard songs to that effect," he answered. Then the laughter left his face and Gandalf sat up straighter, recognizing the look on the Elf Lord's face. "Some were too overjoyed to contemplate anything beyond the joys of springtime returning. Others mourned that the Doom of Mandos had followed us here, just as promised. Maglor wove verses of decay and the death of summertime into the Noldolantë, but at the end of the First Age none of my people paid much heed to history. We were as children again, learning to live as if for the first time. Only now, in the twilight of this age, do those that remain glance behind them once more. The gaze of my people no longer falls on this world, Gandalf. We are looking ever Westward now, and many more sail each year…"

Elrond's ramble trailed off, and Gandalf knew that this balcony—facing east to catch the joys of dawn, in this late hour is seldom used.

"You remain the captain of a slowly sinking ship," the wizard mused.

Elrond tried to chuckle at the analogy, but didn't quite make it. He sighed instead. "All the arrangements have been made. Galadriel and I will sail together when the time is right, and Erestor will not depart before me." Now that chuckle found its way past Elrond's lips. "Actually, he will probably insist on escorting me himself."

Gandalf laughed as well, seeing the truth of the statement—and the sentiment behind it. "Yet your sons will remain behind," he ventured. He saw Elrond tense briefly before releasing a controlled breath as that tension abated.

"Aye," he answered. "I expect them to wish to remain in Middle Earth for a time—either to celebrate Aragorn's coronation or to—"

"Avenge his passing," Gandalf finished.

Elrond found that he could not speak and so he merely nodded.

"Aragorn will either fulfill his destiny or succumb to the mercies of Fate," Gandalf continued. "But forget not that he is Estel. I do not feel that he shall fail, and many more things must come to pass before Gondor is ready to accept a King again."

Once again Elrond nodded. "It has been half a year since Aragorn left us," he said finally. "And though I constantly fear for him it is as though… I am at a loss to explain it, but it's as though part of me believes that this is a necessary parting; that wherever Aragorn is—"

"He is walking the path that leads to the fulfillment of his destiny," Gandalf finished with certainty.

Elrond's head snapped around and he regarded the wizard critically. "You knew…" he accused, nearly breathless. His eyes burned with accusation fueled by a father's love and a father's fear.

Gandalf remained impervious.

"You knew in Lothlórien that this would happen!"

Now Gandalf turned to regard his old friend, who in his passion rolled back all veils and now sat with the commanding presence of the powerful Elven Lord he truly was. Only millennia of practice enabled Elrond to restrain himself from standing in his indignation.

Gandalf merely smiled. "You had me worried, my old friend," he said casually. "For a time you had me convinced that Estel's departure had robbed the fire from you. Now would have been a terribly inopportune time for the Lord of Imladris to be stricken with sea-longing."

Elrond's anger drained from him as water drips from rooftops. He relaxed into his seat once more as he contemplated the strange nature of wizards.

"I do long for Valinor, mellon-iaur," he confessed tiredly. "I long to take my children and my people and sail into the West seeking my lovely Celebrían and all those who've sailed before me. I long to see this shadow overthrown, for never in all my long years upon Arda have we ever been truly free of it. I long to see Aragorn crowned king and for men to rise up to their full potential so that I no longer mourn for the fate of my brother's people. But mostly I long simply to have my Estel come home to me…" Elrond's voice trailed off and he looked away at last.

Gandalf sighed. "And yet here you will remain," he said quietly and with deep sympathy. "You will stay until Aragorn is crowned. Everyone will come to Minis Tirith for his coronation and remain long enough to see he and Arwen pledge their troth finally and forever, and she will rule as Queen of Arnor and Gondor, which Aragorn will rebuild with your help here in the north. You will stay long enough to see the rise of the House of Telcontar and then Erestor will escort you to the Havens for the final ship that will carry the Noldor home again, and I shall return Artanis to the arms of her father as I promised long ago. Glorfindel will remain here in Middle Earth and share the ruling of Imladris with your sons, who will split their time between duty to the elves and duty to Aragorn and Arwen. Then finally, when they are ready to sail Celeborn himself will escort them, finally forsaking Middle Earth for the sake of his wife and daughter, and they will bring word of grandchildren to you. Imladris will be empty when Glorfindel finally sails, fulfilling his oath to Manwë by remaining until Estel and Arwen have departed from the circles of the world, and I fear that it won't be long before Legolas accompanies him, for his friendship with Estel will only strengthen in time."

Both elf and wizard remained silent for a time in the aftermath of Gandalf's speech. Elrond had an odd look on his face but Gandalf knew better than to break his train of thought.

"You have foreseen this?"

Gandalf grinned. "Not as such," he confessed, "but you have."

Elrond sighed before standing at last and walking heavily over to the balcony. He leaned into the railing and closed his eyes. "I have seen much," he said at length. "That is a future that I dare not hope for."

"And why not?" Gandalf questioned, his voice colored by amusement. "We are trusting in _hope_, are we not?"

Elrond recognized the intentional pun immediately and smiled. "Estel I trust," Elrond spoke plainly. "It's the rest of Arda I am not too keen on."

Gandalf laughed outright. "Spoken like a true parent."

"Excuse me, hir-nin?"

Both Gandalf and Elrond turned sharply at the voice of a sudden intruder. It was Hisriel, one of the many elves on Erestor's staff. Elrond gave a nod to the she-elf and she continued: "A rider approaches from the north. The patrols give word that it is the Lady Gilraen."

Elrond and Gandalf barely had time to exchange a glance before Elrond launched himself across the balcony and past the startled messenger. Gandalf merely chuckled and smiled warmly to Hisriel, who blushed and took her leave. The wizard followed the Elf Lord at a much more sedate pace down to the front entrance of the Last Homely House.

Elrond barely felt the stairs beneath his feet as he descended them. He was standing in the front courtyard of the Last Homely House in time for Gilraen to rein her horse into a skidding halt—not that it affected her dismount any; she was on her feet and running to Elrond before the dust settled around her panting mare.

"Elrond!" she cried, running full tilt towards him.

Elrond had picked up on her sense of urgency (as did all who witnessed her approach) and made to close the gap between them. Gilraen found herself trying for her own skidding stop as she barely avoided slamming into Elrond, whose Elven reflexes allowed him to pivot out of the way just in the nick of time. He grabbed her squarely by both arms as he did so, and her momentum carried her in a semi-circle around him as he held her thus. Finally the motion stopped and she found herself panting half collapsed in his strong arms.

"Easy," he directed, his soothing baritone betraying nothing of his own inner turmoil. "Relax. Catch your breath a moment."

It was at this moment that Gandalf arrived, walking side by side with Erestor, whom he had met in the hallway.

"My Lord," Gilraen spoke at last, still breathing heavily. Elrond helped her to stand on her own two feet again. "My Lord," she tried again, forcing her breathing to return to her control. "Ar-Estel!" She caught herself in time.

Suddenly Glorfindel was standing beside Gandalf and Erestor, and the wizard had to admit that he was too engrossed in the scene before him to notice the Vanya's approach. He did notice when Erestor placed a restraining hand on Glorfindel's forearm, however.

"What of Estel?" Elrond asked, emotions barely concealed in a strained voice that nearly broke.

Gilraen finally took a series of deep breaths and stood up straighter. "My Lord Elrond," she began, sounding much more like herself. "I've come straight from the camp to tell you; Bowen and I have received word from Estel!"

Gandalf was amused that Erestor's restraint on Glorfindel was voluntarily released. The two elves jumped, Erestor beating Glorfindel by mere fractions of a second, and they both landed on the ground with the supple grace and ease of elves with millennia of practice at such antics. Gandalf chuckled to himself and used his staff to help him conquer the five marble stairs.

Meanwhile Gilraen had handed both letters to Elrond and he was hastily reading them at first to reassure himself that Estel was alive and well, and then again more meticulously to be sure that he didn't miss a single word or meaning. The first letter from Bowen was then passed off blindly and wound up in the hands of Glorfindel. Erestor crowded next to him so that they both might read. Gandalf stood apart from them and took comfort from the sentiments displayed by Estel's adoptive family; a moment later and Gilraen was standing beside him.

Elrond was in the middle of his third reading of the letter to Gilraen when his focus began to shift. His eyes appeared to cloud over as though he began wandering the paths of Elven dreams. Unbeknownst to him, his knees began to give way beneath him. Erestor swiftly caught his lord about the waist and then righted him, and seconds later Glorfindel had dropped the letter he had been rereading in order to help. Somehow the dropped letter blew to Gandalf's feet and the wizard stooped with surprising ease to pick it up. He looked up to see Glorfindel speaking softly in Quenya to Elrond, trying to draw him back from wherever it was the visions had taken him. Erestor was attempting to disperse the crowd that was beginning to gather.

"Your son's letter has triggered a vision," Gandalf spoke quietly to Gilraen without taking his eyes off the scene before him. He knew she didn't understand a word of the High Tongue.

"But, I thought it was something he could control at will?" Gilraen asked, both confused by the explanation and startled that the wizard was able to sense her thoughts so easily.

"When you open your eyes every morning, can you control what it is you see?" Gandalf countered. "You may close your eyelids or turn your head, but you cannot control what it is before your eyes."

"But why the letter?"

Gandalf shrugged. "No one knows why those with foresight get their visions, or from where—or whom. My guess is that reading about Estel has given Elrond a glimpse into the life of the man behind the words."

Gilraen nodded but still appeared troubled.

"Don't worry," Gandalf reassured with a kindly grin. "Elrond will return to us momentarily with new insight into your son's life. He'll tell us this information and then one of his close friends will ensure that he has a good stiff drink followed by a quiet nap, then he'll be good as new."

Gilraen relaxed slightly at this. "My mother never went through spells like this."

Gandalf snorted. "Your mother doesn't have over six thousand years of practice at it."

"Elrond, mellonin," Glorfindel tried again.

Finally Elrond's eyes returned to focus, and he blinked to suddenly find his nose mere inches from that of the balrog-slayer.

"What have you seen?" Glorfindel then asked with surprising gentleness.

Elrond wordlessly passed the letter to him. Glorfindel took it after a wary pause and then began to read. Erestor had seen to it that all curious elves were turned away and was now standing apart from everyone else, looking on in deep yet quiet interest. He had surreptitiously placed himself between the elves and Gilraen, effectively deterring her from interrupting Glorfindel and Elrond if for some reason Gandalf's presence beside her did not suffice.

"He is alive," Glorfindel said reassuringly. "He is alive and well and living in Rohan."

Elrond merely nodded, and Glorfindel did not like the hollow look to his friend's eyes.

"He lives," Elrond repeated, and all took note of how off the detached tone sounded for the sentiment.

"Speak, Elrond," Glorfindel directed with a quiet authority that surprised Gilraen. She had never heard _anyone_ issue orders to Lord Elrond. "Fill in the blanks for us. Tell us what you know."

Elrond sighed and ran a tired hand over his eyes. "There is a finality to this letter," he explained. "In his heart and mind, Estel has severed all ties with us. If ever we were family… we are now no more than memory. The bonds have been completely sundered."

"What are you saying?" Gilraen's quietly panicked voice broke the stunned and heavy silence that had descended after Elrond finished speaking.

"That to protect himself from the pain of this parting Estel has forced himself to abandon all previous concepts of family, and that daily he strives to forget all that he has lost," Gandalf explained calmly.

Elrond nodded heavily. "He is a citizen of Rohan, belonging to the household of the child that he saved. They are his family now."

"Where?" Gilraen blurted. "Did you see where in Rohan?"

Elrond shook his head sadly. "I did not," he confessed. "And even if I did…"

"We would not be welcome," Glorfindel finished, his voice soft and slightly pained.

Elrond could only nod.

"The twins?" Erestor's spoke suddenly, breaking his previous silence. All turned to face him.

"They were out hunting and I did not want to wait for their return," Gilraen answered. "Riders have been sent seeking them. They will be directed here."

Gandalf smiled and Glorfindel studied him critically. Why is it that the wizard never appeared to be surprised?

"In that case you should expect them presently," Gandalf said, almost dismissively. "Now I sense that this has become a family matter, and as such I shall take my leave of you." All eyes were on him quizzically. He laughed slightly to himself. "Well, _someone_ should ride to Mirkwood and inform Prince Legolas that Estel has been found, and something tells me that if a mere messenger were entrusted with this task that they would not be able to stop our young prince from scouring Rohan rock by rock until he found where his best friend has been hiding."

"Should we stop him?" Gilraen asked defiantly and all eyes then shifted to her, then back to Gandalf, who sighed tiredly.

"Estel must be allowed to walk this path that he has chosen, and we must respect his choice."

"Since when are Estel's _choices_ conducive to what is best for him?" Erestor muttered, purposefully not quite quietly enough. Glorfindel chuckled despite himself.

"Since I have felt it so," Elrond whispered.

Glorfindel and Erestor exchanged meaningful glances while Gilraen met Elrond's eyes defiantly, but the haunted look that Elrond gave her… a look that held both certainty and bitter despair… was enough to silence any future protests.

"Sleep, Elrond," Gandalf directed. "You need it." He gave a pointed glare to Glorfindel for all to witness, and Elrond seemed to sag beneath the weight of yet another defeat. That he didn't even offer protest spoke volumes of his mood and energy level. Then Gandalf tipped his hat towards them and made in the direction of the stables, muttering something about the likeliness of Legolas shooting the messenger.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Daernaneth_: grandmother

_Daeriel_: granddaughter

_Daerada_: granddad

_Este mân, Arwen aiwë_: (Quenya), sleep well (lit: good), Arwen little bird.

_Elrondion_: son of Elrond

_Fëa_: spirit

_Meleth-nin_: my love

_Hervess_: wife

_Hervenn_: husband

_Edain_: humans or human race

_Arda_: the world

_Naneth/Nana_: Mother/mama

_Mellon-iaur_: old friend

_Eru_: for the sake of argument, this is God.

_Noldolantë_: Lament for the fall of the Noldor

_Telcontar_: (Quenya) Strider—the name of Aragorn Elessar's royal house.

_Hir-nin_: my lord

_Mellonin_: my friend

**Notes on canonical vs _fan_onical conventions: **

-_On the worries of Celeborn_: Aragorn, raised as a son of an Elven lord, believed that he had wronged his foster family to the point where the only solution was to run away. However, running away was not necessary because they did not feel towards him what he had assumed they felt, and now that he is gone they worry constantly over him and wish that he would return so that amends can be made. There has also been much effort to find him. If you look merely at these base facts, the circumstances closely follow those surrounding the life and destiny of Turin Turambar, something which Celeborn, former advisor to King Thingol of Doriath, would have intimate and painful memories of. It seems only natural that Celeborn would make the comparison—and worry greatly over Estel's fate in comparison to his destiny.

_-On the duties of the rangers_: The rangers are the remnant of Arnor's soldiers. Arnor was rather large. It just seems silly that the rangers would only patrol the northern parts of it, mainly the Shire and Bree. I have taken the liberties to give the rangers a much more in-depth role in the fight against evil. Also, we all know that the rangers went south with the sons of Elrond to help in the fight against Mordor. I don't think that they would have completely abandoned the Battle of Dale in order to do this. Therefore the rangers would have had to divide their numbers, and so rather large numbers are needed if either side is to be effective.

The military breakdown of their stations and patrols is as follows:

Fixed companies in** bold**, dependent scouting parties in_ italics_, **_independent _**scouting parties in**_ bold italics_**

**Gold**: between the Misty Mountains and the Hoardale north of the Great East Road and south of the Ettenmoors; headquarters is the main camp in this story.

**Green**: south of the Great East Road and follows mostly the Bruinen and Hoarwell to Tharbad. Patrol along the Sirannon through the Nîn-in-Eilph and check the weather of the Redhorn (The fellowship waited for scouting reports before departing. It seems natural that the rangers would have been involved in this.).

_Green Scouts_: follow the Grayflood to Lond Daer and east to spy on Dunland.

**Blue**: west of the Hoarwell, south of the Great East Road, and follows the curve of the Brandywine. Patrol the cities of men (Bree, etc).

_Blue Scouts_: through Cardolan between the Greyflood and Brandywine.

**Red**: north of the Great East Road, west of the Hoardale, with Fornost acting as the Northwest Corner, forming a square. Patrol the Weather Hills (why Aragorn thought that it might have been rangers on Weathertop).

**Gray**: west of Fornost and including but not south of the Tower Hills, including Annúminas, and west to the River Lune. Guard the Shire.

_Gray Scouts_: south of the Tower Hills to the Southern Blue Mountains, east of the Lune to the Northern Blue Mountains and to the Havens and Lindon.

**_White Patrols_**: north of an imaginary line drawn form the top of the Ettenmoors to the top of the Emyn Uial all the way to Lune. Keeps an eye on Angmar.

**Silver**: south of the Gray Mountains to the Old Forest Road, between the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood. Includes Beorn. Keeps an eye on Goblin-town.

**Brown**: south of the Old Forest Road to the Gladden Fields, between the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood.

**Violet**: east of Mirkwood and south of the Withered Heath, including Erebor and Dale, following the banks of the Celduin to where it meets the Carnen, then north to the Iron Hills.

_Violet Scouts_: northern Rhûn.

**_Yellow Scouts_**: Mirkwood

**_Bronze Scouts_**: Wilderland to Dorwinion

In these increasingly darker days of the 3rd age, the rangers have allied themselves with just about everybody. If you recall, Thranduil voiced his respect for the rangers. This is why.


	7. Ch 5b: Finding hope, part 2

Glorfindel entered the dark chamber that was his Lord's study. The sun had long since set and the Vanya could make out the outline of Lord Elrond seated at his desk in the faint light that spilt in from the hallway lamps.

"I thought I would find you here," he said, entering fully into the study.

Elrond looked up, seemingly surprised to see someone standing before him.

"Though usually your decisions to burn the midnight oil are accompanied by the actual _burning_ of the midnight oil."

Elrond's puzzled expression was answered by Glorfindel's striking of flint sticks to light the desk lamp. Now a warm glow filled the study and Elrond smiled faintly.

"That _was_ lit," he pointed out. "A strong breeze must have extinguished it."

Glorfindel chuckled slightly. "And you thought not to relight it?"

Elrond seemed to give great thought to his answer, but then he merely shrugged. "How is Lady Gilraen?" he asked, changing the subject. Glorfindel recognized the diversion but decided to play it out.

"She is sleeping, finally. I checked on her before coming here."

Elrond sighed and ran a tired hand across his eyes.

"She is content in knowing that Legolas will seek out Estel now that we finally have a place to look," Glorfindel added, noticing the antiquated map of Rohan sitting on Elrond's desk.

Elrond smiled wanly. "Rohan is vast and empty," he said, gesturing to the map. "Legolas would be hard pressed to find him without any further clues."

"Ah but you forget that Mithrandir took the first letter," Glorfindel reminded him. "It is conceivable that the seal can be traced from inside Rohan."

Elrond seemed to consider this as though the matter were life and death. Then suddenly he stood and took quick strides over to the balcony. The breeze caught him as he crossed the threshold, lofting his hair slightly and encouraging fallen leaves to swirl at his feet. He heard Glorfindel approach softly behind him.

"He has the means," Elrond conceded. "And the Valar know he has the determination. If he leaves, he will not stop searching until he discovers Estel."

"_If_?" Glorfindel prompted. By now he was standing behind Elrond and to the left, completely out of sight.

Elrond sighed heavily. "Gandalf will talk him out of it," he stated tonelessly. "And if not he, then surely Thranduil will forbid it."

"Does this make you happy?" Glorfindel asked quietly, his voice hinting at doubt.

Elrond then turned around to face the balrog-slayer. "Why ask questions to which you already know the answers?" He masked his slight annoyance with a bemused raise of an eyebrow as he asked the question.

"Perhaps because I need to hear the answers from you," Glorfindel replied, not allowing Elrond to evade again.

He was rewarded with a heavy, defeated sigh.

"If Legolas goes searching and by some miracle happens to actually find Estel and convince him to return home I will thank him and be grateful," Elrond answered, shades of regret in his voice.

"But?"

Another sigh. "But..." he admitted, his voice trailing. "Coming home now is not what Estel needs. In hindsight I realize that both Gandalf and Galadriel must have seen this end for neither seemed as worried as the situation should have warranted."

Glorfindel nodded. "This path will eventually lead Estel towards his destiny," he stated. "And as father to both Estel and Arwen, you have allowed your emotions to cloud your vision."

Elrond spun around sharply at the gentle yet succinct rebuke. However, he could not refute the statement and so he simply sighed and hung his head. Then Glorfindel closed the gap between them.

"We were all blind to the attraction between Estel and Arwen," he reassured. "All save Galadriel, but even the Dark Lord himself is hard-pressed to keep secrets from _her_."

Elrond snorted. "And yet they call _me_ the greatest of the wise."

Glorfindel's eyes narrowed and to Elrond it seemed that the Vanya had just bitten his tongue to keep his words in check. After a pregnant pause he replied:

"Galadriel is wise, _Artanis_ was not. You have matured a great deal faster than she."

Elrond nodded, slightly surprised. Outwardly Glorfindel had a great deal of respect for the Lady of Lothlórien, yet there were moments when that respect was tinted by something else. It was Celebrían who had the courage to ask him what that something was, shortly after her marriage to Elrond. The balrog-slayer merely stated that it was a matter of ancient history between them dating from the time before the flight of the Noldor, worlds and lifetimes away and having no place here in the Third Age of Middle Earth, and nothing more was ever said of it.

"As of this moment it matters not," said Elrond tiredly. "My son is far from home, walking the most important path of his life all alone because it is necessary for his _destiny_, and all I can do to help him to achieve this greatest of deeds is to endorse my daughter's wish to die."

The lingering hardness in Glorfindel's eyes evaporated in the face of Elrond's despair. "Mellonin, I do not have children of my own. However I do not need them, for I have yours."

Elrond arched an eyebrow at this, and Glorfindel continued with his explanation.

"While it pains me greatly knowing that when I finally depart for Valinor our beloved Undomiel will never be joining us, I am content in the knowledge that her remaining days on Arda will be the happiest days of all her long life. As a parent, her joys are your joys, and my joys and Erestor's too. And when the time comes, you will not have to bear the pain alone."

Glorfindel's words were so sincere that Elrond had no choice but to believe him. Robbed of his usual eloquence he could only nod, understanding and gratitude shining in his eyes. Finally at great length he spoke.

"I do share her joy at finding love, mellonin. Her fëa sparkles once more with a light that I have not seen since Celebrían sailed. The peace that she has found now is akin to that which she would find in Valinor, but this choice will be the more fulfilling."

"You are truly wise Elrond, for you are able to see this end, even though the looking glass is tainted by the knowledge that seeing thusly will deny you your daughter's presence in Valinor."

Elrond smiled faintly. "If I were truly wise, I would have seen the depths of Estel's self-loathing and the conversation we shared would have ended much differently."

Glorfindel returned the smile, and it colored his next words. "And yet if the conversation had ended differently, _Aragorn_ would not have begun walking the path towards his destiny. You are wise, yet destiny is cruel."

Any mirth Glorfindel felt in making that statement was betrayed by the painful truth Elrond saw reflected in his friend's eyes.

"Yet apparently my supposed wisdom cannot hold a candle to the cunning of my close friends and relations."

Glorfindel laughed aloud. "I shall choose to take that as compliment, Peredhel."

The seriousness of the conversation melted away into friendly banter as Glorfindel sensed that his task was now complete. Then suddenly the double doors of the study were thrown completely open with a loud and startling bang.

"Ada!"

"Where is Estel!"

"You've heard word—"

"Is he well?"

"Is he coming home?"

The twins had entered together, firing off questions in such a manner that both Elf Lords lost track of which one was speaking. Glorfindel sniggered while Elrond raised his hands to silence his sons.

"Peace, gwanunin. Estel has written two letters assuring that he is alive and well."

"Where is he?" "Show us the letters!"

Once again the twins spoke at the same time, blurring the line of who said what. Glorfindel chuckled merrily at their antics while Elrond looked exasperated.

"He is in Rohan," Elrond answered. Then he walked back behind his desk. "This is the letter he wrote to Lady Gilraen. She has given permission for you both to read it."

Elladan reached out and snatched the letter from his father's hand. The twins huddled close to the desk lamp, for it was the only light source in the room. Glorfindel made his exit unnoticed as Elrond sank back into his desk chair to await his sons.

"That is all?" Elladan asked once they were finished reading. "Where is the other letter?"

"Mithrandir has taken the letter Estel sent to Bowen. He is well on his way to Mirkwood by now."

"Legolas will be most appreciative," Elladan said with a knowing grin that Elrond couldn't help returning, weak though the gesture might have been.

"This is it, isn't it," said Elrohir quietly, the question rhetorical. He was still grasping the letter after his brother released his hold on it. The younger twin then finally turned to face his father, and in his son's dark gray eyes Elrond saw a great despair born from a deeper understanding. His silence was all that Elrohir needed in assurance, and the younger twin stumbled backwards apace and collapsed heavily into the settee against the wall.

Elladan's head snapped around to his brother. "Is what it? Elrohir?"

Elrohir did not answer with words, but whatever silent communication passed between them made Elladan turn sharply to face his father.

"How could Estel do this?" he asked, pain lacing every word. "How could he prefer…" Elladan swallowed back his emotions. "How can he just forget us?"

"He cannot," Elrond answered, rising from his chair and coming to stand at the front of his desk, making himself more accessible to his sons. "Even though he wishes to."

"Why?" Elladan asked, his pained confusion making him sound much younger than his years.

Elrohir had remained where he sat, silent and unresponsive. That is why it surprised both Elladan and Elrond when he was the one to answer, his voice holding the same detached quality that Elrond's had earlier during the conversation with Gilraen.

"To keep the pain away."

Elrond winced, kicking himself for momentarily forgetting just how perceptive his middle son was.

Elladan turned to face his twin, but Elrohir would not speak more.

"Estel believes that his love for Arwen was a great insult to this family," Elrond explained, restating what the twins both already knew. "He does not think that we can still love him because Arwen's reciprocating love will condemn her to mortality, taking her away from us."

"I will never understand why Estel thinks of himself as less my brother than Arwen is my sister!" Elladan exclaimed with anger and hurt. "I could no more reject him than I could Elrohir!"

The younger twin looked up at that. "Ada?" he asked, his eyes fearful of what he was about to say. "Ada, this can't be forever. He can't be gone from us for good… can he?"

Elrond sighed and leaned back against his desk. "Aragorn is following the path that will lead him towards his destiny."

Both twins turned stunned yet attentive eyes towards their father, for never since Gilraen brought her young son to Imladris had they heard him refer to Estel by his true name alone. Elrond continued:

"His time in the lands of men will lead to a great many things, things that will help him to become who he was born to be."

"And he was born to be the king of men," Elladan stated dejectedly. "But Aragorn and Estel should not be mutually exclusive."

"It is Estel who decided that they must be," said Elrond. "And it is to our woe that we did not recognize the partition in time."

"Adar, what do you see?" Elrohir asked suddenly. "Will it always be so?"

Elrond sighed and ran a hand over his eyes. "I see both very much and yet very little," he responded. Before his sons could interject he clarified: "The future is uncertain, and more questions are raised than answered. But I foresee that in time Estel will come to reconcile who he is, and when that happens he will find his way home to us."

"How long, ada?" Elladan asked. "How long do we have to sit here patiently while our little brother is out gallivanting on the doorstep of Mordor!" Then, angrily turning on Elrond: "When he was but seven and ran away because he feared we did not love him you personally rode out in search of him! Are we to simply give him leave this time because he now knows his true lineage?"

"Estel is not a child anymore, Elladan," said Elrond, no traces of rebuke for his son's outburst. "And his fears concerning his destiny will not be abated by reassurances of our love."

"Right now I care not that he fears his destiny," Elladan countered. "All that matters is that my youngest brother has run away from home because he fears that I no longer love him, and that _can_ be easily rectified now that I know where to find him!"

"Estel must be allowed to walk this path," Elrond stated firmly. "He must learn the lessons that his choices are to teach. Yes the bulk of these will be about how to live and lead amongst men, but more importantly he will gain a sense of confidence that he could never achieve here in Imladris or with the rangers. Without—" Elrond's breath hitched suddenly, his emotions trying to prevent the words his sons must also hear. He swallowed harshly and continued: "Without us in his life, he will no longer suffer the bitter disappointment from failure with unattainable goals."

"You want Estel to grow up human," said Elrohir, once again startling his father and brother by speaking up. "He must become Aragorn, son of Arathorn, not Estel, son of Elrond."

Elrond sighed and nodded. Elladan began to sense acceptance in his twin and could not bear it. Tears pricked his eyes and he turned away harshly in haste to hide them.

"Your brother has been Estel for eighteen years of his life," Elrond said softly to Elladan's back. "Then he learned that he was also Aragorn, and you cannot deny the effect that this information had upon him."

Elladan tensed, the only sign that he was listening—and understanding—his father's words.

"He knows how to be Estel of Imladris," Elrond continued. "Now he must learn how to be Aragorn of the Dúnedain. Only when he has figured that out will he be able to reconcile both sides, and return home to his family as _both_."

"It will take years, won't it," Elladan stated finally, his voice quiet and detached. Elrond didn't have to answer, and finally the elder twin turned back around. His eyes were still misty but the tears that had fallen had been wiped clean.

"Ever since Estel came into our lives I have learned to count the years as mortals do. When before Elrohir and I could spend ten years in Lórien or hunting in the wilds and think nothing of it, now such lengths of time seem inconceivable to be made to wait for him."

"Your thoughts match mine," Elrond confessed, though in truth he had been feeling the weight of time as mortals do ever since the aftermath of Celebrían's sailing, when Arwen fled to Lothlórien and the twins took to hunting orcs in the wilds for years at a time. "But we do not have a choice."

"There is always a choice, ada," said Elrohir. "That is why it hurts so much."

A heavy silence descended after that statement. Then finally Elladan voiced the obvious question:

"What do we do now?"

"Erestor has made a copy of the letter," Elrond informed his sons. "At daybreak a messenger will depart with it for Lothlórien. The least we can do is keep all those who love Estel abreast of his movements and well-being."

"Ada, let Elrohir and I carry the message," Elladan entreated, and Elrohir looked up sharply from the settee to regard his twin. "If we cannot go hunting for Estel, the least we can do is speak to daernana, dearada, and Arwen personally about it."

Elrond caught the secret smile that Elrohir flashed his twin and the seemingly excessive mirth in Elladan's eyes. For all their antics, his twin sons were too innately honest to be effective liars.

"Very well," Elrond agreed after a sigh. He was not in the mood to try and dissect what scheme his sons were concocting, but he knew that they wouldn't let it interfere with their duty to deliver the message. And with them being in Lothlórien, it was effectively his in-laws' problem.

"Thank you ada!" the twins chorused. Elrohir stood from the settee and together they left Elrond's study with a renewed spring to their pace.

Elrond sighed and shook his head before extinguishing the desk lamp and leaving the study himself. It was getting late, and he was tired and in need of a good nightcap.

* * *

_Mirkwood _

Legolas was sprawled out on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Dinner would be served soon, and he was merely waiting for the summoning bells to ring. He had spent a long, hard day on the practice fields training with the newest batch of warriors. Six elves came of age this past year, and now they were ready to begin the more advanced warrior training. Legolas, finally being back on palace grounds but eager to escape the confining ambiance of the palace walls, had happily agreed to aid Farothir in demonstrating advanced weapons techniques. Farothir, chief trainer of Mirkwood's soldiers, was a hard taskmaster but an excellent teacher, and Legolas was honored at having been asked to assist.

Now Legolas had bathed and changed and was back inside, the Crowned Prince of Mirkwood instead of his preferred status as just another nameless captain of her guard. His mithril circlet was sitting on the nightstand, taunting him with its brightly polished sheen. He hated wearing it, just as he hated all other things now forced upon him that had once belonged to his brother.

Thoughts of Finril made him sigh. That mithril circlet fit his head so much better… the mithril sparkled in the light of his silvery hair so much more brilliantly. Legolas missed the days when all his responsibilities consisted of merely coming home once a season from patrol to make reports on the status of the Defense Against Shadow to Finril, whose duties as Crowned Prince included the coveted position of strategus of Mirkwood's defenses. Finril the strategus would talk war and defense with one of his best captains for hours on end, and Finril the older brother would lecture Legolas the younger brother for hours on end over the brilliant yet sometimes downright dangerous chances he took whilst out on patrol.

"Im tira le, gwadur-nin," Legolas breathed out on a sigh. Over seven yéni later and sometimes it felt like merely yesterday. Of course, Legolas was fully aware of why his thoughts and memories were so easily returned to his brother's tragic death. Estel was missing, with no trace or word of his whereabouts. The twins had exhausted every possible lead in the search for their missing brother, and in the aftermath of the realization that they would not be able to find him they had taken to the wilds again, just as they had after Celebrían sailed.

Legolas had gone with them, because he knew personally and too well the emotions they were denying themselves the right to feel. Legolas was their shadow and their guardian these past six months, ensuring that they had food each night and that their wounds were looked to. They had accepted his presence like a fevered forehead accepts a cool cloth, but in reality they were more intuned to their own world than to the world around them; the blessing and the bane of having a twin.

Now, nearly half a year later, the twins had managed to come out of their depressed stupor. Now instead of hunting orcs with a seemingly mechanical vigor they were helping the rangers stock food for the winter. They were laughing again, though less frequently than they should, and could carry on entire conversations with more than just monosyllabic words. Legolas perceived that his task was completed when he no longer had to fear for the twins, and so he had gone home Mirkwood, where now the dinner bells chimed and Finril's circlet beckoned to him almost mockingly.

The twins would not fade; that was the thought Legolas latched onto as he made his way from his bedchamber to the dining hall. He had worried about them for a time, but that famed Peredhel stubbornness was able to conquer in the end, and life in Imladris would continue for Elladan and Elrohir. Legolas liked to think that he had helped to keep them physically alive while their fëar were at war with themselves. He liked to think that because it made him feel like he had actually done something productive to help the situation. He could do nothing for Estel now, as much as that fact pained him. Estel was beyond his reach, but the twins he could keep firmly in grasp. Legolas has already lost his brother of blood and birth, and the brother of his heart was missing and feared dead. His brothers in arms were all he had left, and the twins were two of his closest friends. He would be kissing Sauron's feet before he would let something happen to them! Now the twins were safe, and so there was nothing for Legolas to do but find ways of coping with his constant worry and fear for Estel, wherever the ranger was…

Legolas arrived at the royal family's private dining hall to see his father conversing eagerly with Gandalf. This surprised Legolas for many reasons, the least being that he was unaware of the wizard's prior arrival.

"Is something wrong, my prince?"

Legolas started when he heard Ithilion's voice from behind him. The seneschal must have entered just after him.

"When did Gandalf arrive?" Legolas asked, the first of many questions.

Ithilion grinned, guessing at the rest. "Just this afternoon. He and your father have been conversing ever since."

Legolas returned the smile eagerly as he and Ithilion made their way to the table. Before today, Gandalf had not been in Mirkwood since the Battle of the Five Armies, and afterwards he and King Thranduil had parted on less than pleasant terms. Now it appeared that the two have made amends, which really should have happened years ago given the favorable outcome of the entire sordid affair.

Ithilion claimed his seat at the king's right as though nothing was out of the ordinary while Legolas came to stand behind his usual chair, which was placed directly opposite his father. Gandalf, who was seated at the king's left, didn't appear to notice the prince's presence.

Nor did Thranduil, until Legolas coughed.

"Ah, good evening ionin!"

Legolas returned his father's smile warily. Something had to be up for Thranduil to be in _this_ good a mood.

"Good evening, adar, Gandalf," Legolas returned.

"Ah, Prince Legolas, your father told me that you were in the palace, but I must admit that I am pleasantly surprised to find this true," said Gandalf with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"I have recently returned from Bowen's camp and my next tour of duty has not yet begun," Legolas explained formally, still standing behind his chair.

"And that is well," Thranduil added. "For once I am blessed with the company of my son and heir without having to take my visitation rights inside the healing ward."

Ithilion sniggered. "Yes, we were all pleased when our prince returned from his latest sojourn with the Sons of Elrond for once relatively unscathed."

Legolas had the good graces to look offended as he claimed his seat.

"Well, I can tell you directly that Elrond was also quite pleased with this development," Gandalf merrily stated. "Especially since his own twin sons were returned to him in much the same condition."

"Elladan and Elrohir have returned already?" Legolas asked Gandalf, surprised.

"Quite right," Gandalf answered. "I should imagine that they arrived in their father's house only shortly after I myself departed."

"You've come from Imladris then?" Legolas asked, and all could sense the question burning on his lips.

"Ionin," Thranduil interjected before Legolas could begin giving Gandalf the third degree. "Do you not think it prudent to allow your questions to wait until _after_ dinner?"

Legolas's gaze shifted quickly to his father, but Thranduil's disarming smile and friendly banter could not fool those who knew him best. Legolas recognized the 'suggestion' for what it was.

"Of course," the Prince agreed, speaking directly to his father.

There was a fierceness in Legolas's eyes that Thranduil readily returned. The King knew well that his son would be barely able to restrain himself through dinner, and it was communicated in that final glance that all questions would be answered afterwards. Until then, Legolas had no choice but to sit and wait. Gandalf wondered how long it would take before the Prince began squirming in his seat.

The Royal Family's meals in the Woodland Realm were a private, family affair. In days gone by, the family would eat together in this private dining room, and on occasion Ithilion would join them, as well as the families of Thranduil's lords and advisors every once in a while. However, with Legolas being all that now remained of his children and with his wife having long since departed for Valinor, Thranduil only reserved this dining room for times when his son was home. Only trusted guests, such as Gandalf or Elrond and his sons should they be in Mirkwood, were allowed to join the family. Ithilion had a place at this table too, but no one else from Thranduil's staff dared to disturb these precious moments of quiet family time. As it was, these rare meals were steadily growing rarer still as Legolas was needed more and more to aid in the Fight Against Shadow. Therefore Thranduil did not lightly allow the outside world to come between him and his son during this highly coveted time, and not even Gandalf's news from the House of Elrond was enough to warrant a disruption of the meal.

By some miracle of the Valar, Legolas managed to survive dinner. Thranduil and Ithilion entertained Gandalf with stories of what had happened since last the wizard visited the Woodland Realm, focusing most specifically on the current status of foreign relations. Gandalf in turn informed King Thranduil of the other side of the coin: the current state of affairs in both Dale and Erebor—and not the diplomatic versions. Legolas listened to all of this with a bored yet practiced ear, offering questions or making observations at random intervals to prove that he was still a part of the conversation. In truth it just made him miss his brother all the more, for Finril was always a quick study at the subtleties of politics; and he was itching to ask Gandalf about any news from Imladris.

After dinner Ithilion suggested that the family retire to a sitting room for brandy and Thranduil readily agreed. Soon Legolas found himself seated lazily on a bench in front of a bay window with his father seated regally in a wing chair. Gandalf accepted a seat in an ordinary high-backed chair.

"When Ithilion returns with brandy we shall then allow Legolas to sate his curiosity," said Thranduil to Gandalf.

Legolas stifled a groan and mentally counted to ten, in Quenya.

Gandalf had, of course, informed Thranduil of the nature of his visit long before dinner, and knowing that the message was one of joy and not of sorrow, Thranduil rather enjoyed watching his son squirm for a time. Legolas appeared as some bizarre crossing of an elfling awaiting the Solstice Feast and a warrior awaiting the onset of an inevitable battle, and since he already knew the outcome Thranduil took this as recompense for all the hours spent worrying at his son's side in the healing ward.

After what seemed an eternity to Legolas, Ithilion returned to the sitting room carrying a bottle of brandy and four snifters on a serving tray.

"Did you give your serving maids the night off?" Gandalf asked in amusement.

"I did," Ithilion answered for his king. "I thought it best that our conversations be kept free from extraneous ears."

"Thank you, Ithilion," said Thranduil.

"Yes," Gandalf agreed. "It appears that once again your seneschal has proven his worth."

"My dear wizard, Ithilion has never needed to prove himself to me," Thranduil replied. The three adults were quite enjoying the hold they had over Legolas, but even the prince's patience has limits.

"Why thank—"

"Enough!" Legolas shouted, interrupting Ithilion as he practically launched himself from the bench. He stood defiantly before his father and all but dared him to offer rebuke. "Gandalf the Gray does not just ride into a kingdom years after having a falling out with its king only to compliment the seneschal! I would know your purpose, wizard, and I would know it now."

"Legolas…" Thranduil breathed in disbelief. It was times like these that reminded him just how little he truly knew his son. Before Finril died… Long gone was the gentle spirited, easy-going Legolas that took everything in stride, but Thranduil spent so little time with his son that he was prone to forget that.

"It's quite all right, King Thranduil," said Gandalf seriously. "Legolas is right; I came here on a specific errand and I must see it through. Please forgive my reluctance, but in the end you may understand why."

Legolas felt his heart leap into his throat at the foreboding in the wizard's voice. "What is it Gandalf?" he managed to ask in a small voice, all traces of harshness and disrespect forgotten. "You've come from Imladris. Tell me, do you bring word of Estel?"

Gandalf sighed heavily and reached into the folds of his robes. "I do," he confessed, pulling out a folded sheet of parchment.

Legolas's eyes went wide.

"Estel has finally sent word. This is the letter he wrote to Bowen of the Dúnedain."

Legolas practically leapt across the floor in order to get close enough to grab the letter from Gandalf's hands. Both Ithilion and Thranduil had already been briefed on the situation, and now came the task of revealing the information to Estel's best friend.

Legolas's eyes feverishly roamed over the missive. After the first read-through he looked questioningly over to the wizard. Then he went back and read it a second time, and then a third.

Thranduil and Ithilion exchanged nervous glances.

"Strider says here that he also wrote his mother…" Legolas breathed, confusion plainly written on his face. He had met Estel as the orphan adopted by Lord Elrond and therefore had no knowledge of Gilraen or even of Estel's true heritage. The Wise had agreed that the fewer that knew the better. Of course now that all seemed rather moot.

"Indeed he did," said Gandalf as though there was nothing out of the ordinary. "And here we come to the difficult part of my visit here."

"Gandalf," Thranduil interjected, also confused. He hadn't actually read the letter and so was just as surprised as Legolas was. "Estel is an orphan. How did he come to write his mother?"

Gandalf sighed tiredly. Ithilion knew his place and took that as cue to slip towards the door.

"You might as well stay, Ithilion of Ossiriand," said Gandalf, halting Ithilion in his tracks. Only Círdan and Lord Celeborn ever call him that in this first age.

"As you wish, Mithrandir," Ithilion answered in slight awe.

"Right then," Gandalf began. "What you are about to hear is to never travel beyond this room. It is a secret that has been kept for twenty-four years at the bidding of the Council of the Wise and only now with great reluctance do I break my silence now." Gandalf paused to hold eye contact with each elf in the room. Seeing that they were all aware of the severity of the situation he deemed it alright to continue. He sighed again and reclaimed his original chair.

"We now know that Estel has fled to the kingdom of Rohan. Surely by now you are aware of an argument that passed between Estel and Lord Elrond that was the cause of the young man's flight?"

"They would not tell me," Legolas confessed quietly, and all eyes flew to him. "The twins I mean. All they said was that Estel and their adar had a disagreement about Estel's plans for his future, and that harsh words were said, and that Estel left. I wish I knew more."

Gandalf nodded, this revelation not coming as a surprise. "Do not think badly on them for not telling you," he directed. "They are bound by the same pact that I right here am breaking. The secret that I am about to reveal is known only by Elrond and his children, as well as Lords Glorfindel and Erestor. No one else in Rivendell knows the truth, and outside of Rivendell only a select few among the rangers are aware, as well as myself, Galadriel, Celeborn, and Círdan. Estel himself was only informed six years ago."

"For all the hype this had better be good, Gandalf," said Thranduil impatiently. As king of Mirkwood for more years than he'd like to count he wasn't used to being made to wait for important news to get around the impressive tongues of the messengers.

Gandalf merely smiled at him, unperturbed. "What you've been told is true. Estel and Elrond did argue over Estels's plans for his future. However, the better truth is that they argued over the future's plans for Estel."

"What do you mean, the future's plans?" Legolas asked.

"He means that the wise perceive the young adan to have a destiny," Thranduil explained.

Gandalf nodded. "That is precisely what I mean, King Thranduil."

"So you're saying that Estel and Lord Elrond argued over Estel's destiny?" Legolas asked. "A destiny that had to be kept hidden from all but the few in the inner circle of the wise?"

"Tell us then, Gandalf," Thranduil directed. "What is so important that so few were let in on the secret?"

Surprisingly, Ithilion spoke up before Gandalf got the chance.

"Estel is Isildur's heir."

The other elves turned sharply to regard the seneschal of Mirkwood.

"But… Arathorn died…" Legolas breathed.

"Yes he did," said Gandalf, getting over his shock that Ithilion had pieced it together so quickly. "However, his wife the Lady Gilraen, together with the sons of Elrond, managed to get her young son safely to Imladris. There it was decided that since the enemy had not only deduced the connection between the Dúnedain chieftains and the heirs of Isildur but had also managed to assassinate Arathorn in a well-planned raid, that it would be safer for the young toddler _Aragorn _if his identity was concealed until he came of age. Thus he was given the name 'Estel,' the hope of men and elves."

Gandalf paused to see realization dawn on the Elven faces before continuing: "Gilraen remained in Imladris with the intent of raising her son there, but too many knew her as wife of the chieftain and mother of the heir, so it was decided that she should entrust her son to Elrond's keeping. She has resided with the Dúnedain ever since, making it no secret that she was the widow of the Dúnedain chieftain and that her young son had also perished in the attack that claimed her husband. Thus Aragorn has grown up a son of Elrond, and only when he came of age and took official leave of Elrond's house to join the rangers were his heritage and destiny revealed to him."

"All this time…" Legolas mused, lost in thought. "All this time and he never told me. He said that his parents were killed by orcs and that the twins brought him to Imladris for fostering, but that he managed to charm his way into Elven hearts and wound up fully adopted by Lord Elrond, whom he claims as adar."

"There is more truth than not to that tale," Gandalf assured. "Gilraen departed for the Dúnedain when Estel was barely five years old. Telling a young Estel that his mother had been waylaid by orcs and then killed when she went to visit her kin at the ranger camp was an easier tale than trying to explain to a five-year-old that even though his mother has abandoned him it didn't mean she loved him any less." Gandalf paused to let the implications sink in. Then: "It was safer for Aragorn to grow up Estel believing both his human parents dead so the lie was freely given."

"So the Lady Gilraen is Estel's mother," Thranduil concluded aloud. He had met the Queen of the Dúnedain on several occasions before Arathorn died, and now that he had faces to put to ideas he could clearly see how Estel resembled both parents.

"That she is," said Gandalf. "When Estel learned of his true heritage he also learned that his mother was alive. They have spent the past six years trying to build the relationship that they should have had all along."

Gandalf noted the looks of understanding on their faces with satisfaction. Then, with a merry twinkle in his eye he added: "And with so few knowing that secret I am curious to know how your seneschal deduced it."

If Thranduil thought Ithilion capable of blushing the seneschal came dangerously close to doing so in that moment.

"My Lord Wizard," Ithilion stammered, flustered. "If I may say so, I have walked Arda since before the line of Elros Eärendilion came into being. And, now that I know more, please believe me when I say that Estel—_Aragorn_—bears a great resemblance to several of his forefathers."

Gandalf laughed merrily and Thranduil's look of shock changed to one of revelation. Arathorn had resembled Elendil in facial features, but Gilraen could also claim ancestry of that line. Aragorn had the blood of Númenór on both sides, and it had conspired to give him a rather uncanny resemblance to Isildur himself. Of course, Isildur had a rather uncanny resemblance to Elros as he had looked in the years following the fateful moment when he spoke his choice to be counted as edain, and with Estel's upbringing by the elves…

"That is quite all right, Ithilion," Gandalf reassured. "Now I know why I invited you to stay."

"So what is this destiny you speak of?" Legolas interrupted, bringing the conversation back on track. "Surely Estel would not argue so heatedly with Elrond over his position to inherit the leadership of the Dúnedain?"

"No…"

All eyes turned suddenly to Thranduil.

"Estel is but a child of twenty-six—barely a man by the standards of his own race. I do not believe for a moment that Elrond would lay such a burden on such young shoulders. Especially those of his very own son!"

Legolas was awed by this rare glimpse of his father. Thranduil was speaking from the point of view of a parent now. He didn't even state the qualifier of Estel's foster status in the Peredhel house. Legolas's heart swelled with love for his father with this reminder that, even though Thranduil wasn't an overtly affectionate and demonstrative elf, he still counted himself a father first, above even being king.

"Ada what do you mean?" Legolas asked, using the familiarity when before etiquette would have demanded the use of formality.

"He means that it is Aragorn's destiny to unite what's left of the free peoples of Middle-Earth together against the coming dark. Aragorn will be the one to overthrow the Shadow of Mordor and reclaim the thrones of Arnor and Gondor in a newfound time of peace."

Stunned silence hit the room when Gandalf spoke Aragorn's doom.

"How can an adan child overthrow an evil that armies of elves and the Lords of the West could not…?" Thranduil asked breathlessly.

"He will not be a child, by the count of men _or_ elves, when he undertakes this task," Gandalf assured the king.

"Ai, Valar!" Legolas suddenly exclaimed, and all eyes swung to him. "Ever since I've known Estel he has been insecure of his strength and abilities. Being an adan raised amongst elves it was easy for him to doubt himself. Yet these seemingly childhood doubts only grew worse as he got older and I never knew why. Now I do." Legolas's stomach turned with the weight of the realization that was forming before his eyes.

"Edain weakness and mortality were the substance of the thoughts that plagued Estel, yet it is so much more than that. He fears Isildur's weakness will be his own—not simple edain weakness but the weakness of one singular adan. He fears that if he must be the one to overthrow Sauron than he will make Isildur's same mistakes!" Legolas in his agitation was pacing now. "All the times he would confess to me his fears of edain weakness and the folly of his race and I never knew! I never saw what was before my eyes this entire time! He was always unsure of himself and of his worth—to the elves and to all of Arda! I always thought that he was overly paranoid and my reassurances reflected that belief. Ai, if I had only listened! Surely I would have heard what Estel was truly saying!"

Legolas had been holding the letter all this time, but at the last he threw it into the air in disgust and crumpled back onto the bench again, head falling into hands.

"No blame is being placed, Legolas," Gandalf softly soothed. He kneeled beside Legolas with an agility that surprised the other elves. "Estel came to you with his fears and doubts, and you were able to assuage them to the point where his family never knew of the troubles of his mind. You were such a good friend to him that he did not need anyone else to speak to for you were able to set his troubled heart at rest."

Legolas could not help but look up into the wizard's eyes. His hair framed his face in such a way that Thranduil was reminded of a much younger elf, trying to grasp the reason why his brother had to die.

"When Elrond pulled Estel aside to have a conversation about his destiny he did not know the depths of _Aragorn's_ quiet despair. You were the only one that he chose to lean on with such matters, and you did your job so well that none in Imladris had any inklings of what went on in the young man's heart when he was away from home." Gandalf's face lit up in a grin. "If anything, you are blaming yourself for being too good a friend to him, and that is just plain ridiculous."

Legolas couldn't help the small laugh that escaped his lips.

"Tell us of that talk between Estel and Elrond," Thranduil directed once it seemed that Legolas had restrained himself. This was a night of rare displays of emotion from the Royal Family. It stated without true words how much Thranduil loved his son and how much Legolas loved Estel. Ithilion felt as a privileged interloper in the entire affair.

Gandalf sighed and stood again. "Elrond spoke to Aragorn of his destiny, a topic they have not openly discussed at length since _Estel_ learned of his heritage. Elrond was unaware of how sensitive his son was concerning this topic, and Aragorn took his father's statements to have entirely different connotations. Words became heated and Aragorn fled. The rest I do believe you are aware of."

"And Estel has stayed away this past half-year," Thranduil stated. "Despite Elrond's best efforts to find him."

"And now it seems that he has written," Ithilion added. He had picked up the letter where Legolas dropped it and had perused it. "One letter to his chieftain and one to his mother."

Legolas sat up straighter, a new fire in his eyes. "The tone of that letter suggests that Estel is not planning on returning any time soon. It implies that he does not even plan on _writing_ again!" On the tails of that declaration Legolas stood purposefully from the bench.

"Ionin?" Thranduil questioned hesitantly.

"He is in Rohan," Legolas stated plainly. "That is all I need to know."

"Surely you don't mean to go after him?" Thranduil questioned. Unnoticed, Ithilion brought a hand to massage his temples.

"How can Estel and his family make amends if they do not currently speak to each other?" Legolas asked rhetorically, already headed for the door. "And if Estel won't go to them—"

Gandalf suddenly stood in his way, blocking the exit. "Wait, Legolas," he directed.

"For what?" Legolas questioned, taken aback by Gandalf's apparent reluctance. "Estel has already wasted six months of his life, most likely consumed by anger and grief. I know Estel. If I must wait for him to make the first move then I'd be better off waiting for the Valar to make it for him!"

"Legolas!" Thranduil's voice held a warning which his son did not readily heed. He turned to face his father.

"Half a year I've spent, worrying and waiting, praying that Estel is safe in his journeys to Eru knows where. Now that I know where he is how can you expect me to simply remain here? Especially since I now know the true cause of his leaving!"

"Rohan is a vast and empty place," Ithilion spoke up. "You would be searching for a needle in a haystack."

"Not necessarily," Legolas countered. Then, to Gandalf: "If the letter was posted in Rohan surely there's some sort of seal upon the envelope that I can use to track its origins."

"I have the letter only," Gandalf confessed. He had strategically 'misplaced' the envelope on the journey to Mirkwood.

Legolas's jaw clenched. "Very well," he said through grit teeth. "Estel is a man of substantial height and Dúnedain features, which aren't to be found readily in Rohan. I will simply ask around."

"How?" Thranduil protested. "By going door to door."

Legolas's eyes narrowed. "If I must," he vowed. "I have already lost a brother once. I do not fancy enduring that type of loss again. Not if I can help it."

"And I have already lost a son!" Thranduil barked. "Would you have me sit here passively while I let you roam the wilds, far from home and in a foreign and hostile land while you search without plan or pattern for one man in a kingdom of men?"

Legolas's demeanor softened considerably as he regarded his father in that moment. Then at length he spoke:

"Would you have me sit here passively while my best friend… the brother of my heart… roams the wilds far from home and in a foreign and hostile land as he stews on needlessly inflicted hurts that I have every power to mend?"

Thranduil sighed heavily and ran a hand over his eyes, his answered taking considerable time in coming. "You are a good son, Legolas," he said gravely. "And an even better friend."

Legolas dared to smile, and Thranduil nodded tiredly.

"Thank you ada!" Legolas exclaimed excitedly, unashamedly hugging his father right then and there. Thranduil returned the sudden embrace after only a moment's pause, and to all it seemed that he held Legolas just a fraction longer and a smidge tighter than he normally did.

"Bring that boy home, Legolas," Thranduil directed as he brought his son to arms length. "And do so quickly or else he'll have the wrath of another father upon his head." The severity of the statement was betrayed by the twinkle in Thranduil's eye.

"I will adar," Legolas assured. "I promise."

* * *

Legolas was carefully inspecting his arrows one by one. He had taken his largest quiver from the bottom of his closet, which held fifty arrows, and needed twenty-five more arrows from the Master Fletcher in order to fill it. Now he was making sure that each arrow was to his liking before sliding them into the quiver. It was a long way to Rohan, and Legolas had no idea where to find Estel once he got there. Then of course there was the great likeliness of Estel being in some sort of trouble when he found him. With a worried sigh Legolas slid the last arrow into the quiver and wondered how heavy a one-hundred-arrow quiver would be on his back. 

"Packing already?"

Legolas started at the sound of Gandalf's voice. The wizard stood in the open doorway of the Prince's room.

"Gandalf," Legolas greeted in surprised acknowledgement as he whipped around to face the sudden intruder. "Come in," he gestured with a hand.

Gandalf nodded with a secret smile that Legolas had come to expect from wizards as he made his way over to the bed.

"That's a rather large quiver, don't you think?" Gandalf asked, amusement the only emotion showing in his voice.

Legolas smiled slightly. "It's easier than carrying two," he explained dismissively as he returned to his closet to grab an overlarge traveling pack.

"I bet," Gandalf agreed as he lazily poked through the arrows in the quiver.

Legolas was busy pulling garments out of his closet, returning some and draping others over his arm.

"The sons of Elrond took to a similar method when they planned on indefinite leaves of absence from Imladris," the wizard continued. "Now I believe they find it much simpler to fletch their own arrows in the wilds."

Legolas returned to the bed with four tunics, three pairs of leggings and three cloaks.

"You know that won't all fit in that pack..."

"I have another one in here somewhere…" Legolas was back at the closet rummaging again. "And besides," he said, reemerging with another large traveling pack. "I do not plan on being gone indefinitely. Only until I find Estel." He began folding his clothes and stuffing them into the packs.

"Leaving at first light?"

One pack was now full of tunics and leggings. Legolas struggled briefly with the clasp but secured it finally.

"That is the plan," he affirmed as he began shoving cloaks into the other pack.

"I must admit that I was surprised when your father granted you permission," Gandalf ventured.

Legolas was now rummaging through his chest of drawers. "You no more than I," he called out. Then he returned to the bed with the items he sought for: five small pouches and a long wooden box. The box bounced heavy on the bed when Legolas sat it down, then he delicately traced his fingers along the trim as though savoring a memory.

"My father was not happy when I became such friends with an adan," Legolas continued, staring into the simply carved lid of the box. "But contrary to Estel's rather paranoid opinion," he went on, the fondness in his eyes taking all sting from his chosen words, "my father does not hate him. In fact, Estel is one of the few edain to have won his respect."

"While respect is a wonderful thing," said Gandalf, "there is a rather large gap between respecting someone and allowing your son to scour a foreign land _indefinitely_ until he finds them."

Legolas laughed slightly at the wizard's phrasing as he opened the box. He heard Gandalf stifle a gasp behind him.

"Legolas," Gandalf breathed in slight warning. "That's a lot of money."

Legolas smiled wryly. "Is it?" he asked, feigning innocence. "I'm not too good with edain coins."

"Very funny," Gandalf admonished, but Legolas raised his hand for silence.

"Peace, Gandalf," he reassured. "The bulk of this wealth I earned with Estel. We would often track fugitives from the northern lands of men and collect the bounty on them. I could not refuse the money lest I reveal my stature to prying eyes, and since Estel would not let me gift him my share…"

Gandalf laughed outright. "You decided to pocket it for emergencies," he supplied.

"I use it to ensure we can afford provisions, if needed. Inns and taverns do not dole out food and shelter for free, even to those in dire need." The bitterness in Legolas's voice fell short however, as he raked his fingers through the gold and silver coins. For a moment he appeared to be quite his father's son, but then Gandalf noticed the expression on his face.

"You will not need to buy his freedom," the wizard assured.

Legolas turned surprised eyes on him. "You don't know that," he defended quietly. Then he turned back to the coins and began bagging them into the small pouches. "I must prepare for every eventuality."

Gandalf watched with aching regret the meticulous nature that Legolas evenly divided the coins into piles and then double-checked each pile as he dropped the coins into a pouch. The drawstring would then be closed and the pouch set aside.

"History is only repeated by those who do not learn from Her mistakes." Legolas's head snapped around but Gandalf clarified before the prince could talk. Quietly he said: "You will not lose Estel the way you lost Finril."

Legolas laughed a brief, bitter laugh. "Finril died saving me," he said. "Estel may die because I could not save _him_. The steps may vary but the end result is the same: I will have lost another brother."

Legolas walked with determination over to his nightstand. He opened the drawer and instantly procured another box: this one a glass case. Inside it were two intricately carved ivory-hilted knives.

"And I will not allow that to happen, Gandalf," he plainly stated as he opened the lid and removed one knife for inspection. "Not while I still draw breath."

"Those were Finril's…" Gandalf concluded.

Legolas nodded as he removed the other knife and brought them both over to his bed. "And my daeradar's before that," he added. "One of very few relics to survive the fall of Doriath. These knives helped lead refugees to freedom, or so adar claims."

The knives were then wrapped in cloth and placed in the sack.

"Will you single-handedly storm a keep to buy his freedom?" Gandalf asked and Legolas couldn't help the slight laugh that passed his lips.

"If I must," he vowed, then his lips upturned in a smile. "But between you and me, I hope to simply talk some sense into that stubborn human—or at the very most drag his hide back to Rivendell slung over the back of my horse."

"I would not put such antics past you, my prince," Gandalf mused, and Legolas laughed. "But please," the wizard continued, and suddenly to Legolas he appeared very much the old man that his guise portrayed him to be. "Cease your preparations long enough to walk with me."

Legolas blinked in surprise. "Walk? Walk where?"

Gandalf smiled, but not really. His eyes were too sad for it to have been a real smile. The ghost of one perhaps. "It matters not," he said. "But if you must have a destination… the palace courtyard looks positively breathtaking bathed in moonlight."

Legolas's brow furrowed in confusion before he shrugged—the only indication that he had agreed. After all, when the Istari tell you to go for a walk…

And so they walked.

At their pace it seemed as though ages passed before they finally reached the courtyard that Gandalf had referred to. Indeed it _was_ breathtaking when Isil's light shone in through breaks in the leaves to bathe everything in swirls of silver and shadow.

The entire length of the walk, Legolas was anticipating the wizard to speak. Surely he would not have insisted on this walk for no reason…

"Gandalf, why have you brought us here?" Legolas's patience could only last so long.

"I wanted to see the moonlight…" was Gandalf's cryptic reply.

Legolas repressed a sigh of frustration.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" the wizard continued, gazing at the sky through breaks in the trees. "And to think all this beauty is the gift of one bruised and battered fruit, the last of its kind in the world…"

"Gandalf…" Legolas knew where this was going; he grasped the analogy instantly.

"Not even the Valar could save the final fruit of Telperion from falling from the bough. It's a great irony, don't you think, that their efforts to preserve it are what led to that fateful plummet?" Gandalf sighed heavily, standing in another time and place, ages away from the comparatively young prince standing within arm's reach.

"But then the most remarkable thing happened," he continued. "That damaged fruit, only slightly battered on the outside… nothing corrupted of the mettle within… was set in the sky. Day was tempered with night, heat with coolness… brightness with shadow."

"Out of death came life… out of darkness, light. And the world was much improved."

Gandalf smiled at the now oddly wistful price, a true smile this time. "You are wise beyond your years, prince Legolas," he said with affection. This time it was Legolas who offered up a ghost of a smile, and Gandalf saw—with satisfaction and regret—that the prince had understood.

"You think that this trial of Estel's… Aragorn's… is necessary," said Legolas, his gaze intently fixed upon the wizard's face. "You think he must go through this… bruising, if he's to become the King he was born to be."

"His destiny is to reclaim the thrown of men," Gandalf offered.

Legolas uttered a Dwarfish curse and spun around, giving the wizard his back. "Speak no more of destiny," he said bitterly, even as Isil's rays turned his sun-kissed hair to a shimmering mantle of silver. Though he was unaware, he looked very much like his brother then.

"It cannot be avoided," said Gandalf heavily. "It is Aragorn's destiny to overthrow the shadow of this age. However, he will need _Estel's_ help to do this."

"So it is Estel's destiny then to fade away? To become Aragorn out of necessity because his Elven family is dead to him?" If words were daggers…

Gandalf pursed his lips in a very un-wizardlike manor. "Isil," he said softly. "And Anor."

Legolas turned back around. He looked so lost and, Gandalf had to admit, positively _young_, standing there like that.

"When one waxes the other wanes…" the Prince hesitantly mused.

"Estel and Aragorn… Separate souls, one body. Or separate minds and a single soul. When they become one and the same, or rather, when each can only exist because of the presence of the other… never seen together but never imagined apart… When that happens, my Prince, the brother of your heart will return to the north. To Estel's family, and to Aragorn's."

It seemed to Gandalf that Legolas poured over this concept in his mind for an entire age before at last he spoke.

"You don't think I should look for him." It wasn't a question, and no emotion was betrayed in the voice. Isil's shadows through the leaves hadn't quite obscured Legolas's face though, and the keen-sighted wizard saw all that he needed to see in the prince's troubled eyes.

"He needs to walk this path," said Gandalf. "Either he will fulfill his destiny or—"

"Die trying?"

"Along with all of Middle-Earth."

Legolas closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Speak no more of destiny!" he rasped, a shout choked into whisper by emotion.

Legolas swiftly turned his back again and walked a few paces away. He put his hand out and rested his palm against a tree. The leaves rustled and the branches seemed to moan as if it shared the prince's pain—and given the wood elf's heritage that was most likely the case.

Gandalf had known Legolas long enough to know when he should leave well enough alone. It seemed now that all the trees in the courtyard were softly wailing their prince's silent grief. Gandalf knew Legolas enough to know that he would not be riding in pursuit of Aragorn, and he knew just how much it broke the poor prince to remain behind—of his own volition no less, after his father had given him permission to leave. The wizard silently left the courtyard, his own thoughts particularly dark in regards to destiny and Her plans for the young adan he had come to befriend.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Artanis_: Galadriel's father-name (and used by the Noldor and Vanyar of her father's kin) in Valinor. Her mother-name (and used by the Teleri of her mother's kin) is _Nerwen_.

_Mellonin_: my friend

_Fëar_: spirits

_Adar/ada_: father/dad

_Gwanunin_: my twins

_Yéni_: Elvin measurement of time, appx 144 years

_Im tira lle gwadur-nin_: I miss you (lit: I look towards you), my brother

_Ionin_: my son

_Adan/edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race

_Eru_: aka Ilúvatar. For all intents and purposes, this is God

**Notes on canonical vs _fan_onical conventions: **

-_On the moon_: the tale of the bruising of the fruit of Telperion was recorded in _Lost Tales Volume I_. It has been a while since I've read _The_ _Silmarillion_ and I do not remember how in depth this part of history is recorded. If this aspect was omitted from the "finished" canon I apologize.

-_Brief author's note_: When I sat down to write this story I had to come up with a plausible reason for Aragorn to essentially run away for a good twenty years or so. However, with the reason I established, I then had to explain why his family didn't storm off to Rohan and drag him back by the ear. Therefore I have taken the approach that, even though they desperately want to, they realize that it is actually in Aragorn's—and Middle-Earth's—best interests if they do not.


	8. Ch 6a: Thorongil's first war, part 1

_Winter, early 2958  
Rohan_

Aragorn groaned and rolled over, pulling the blankets over his head to shield his eyes from the sun. It was entirely too early to get up, he thought. Especially when he'd only gone to bed a few hours ago, during the pre-dawn gray that signals farmers to begin their day and reckless rangers to end theirs.

Aragorn moaned and pressed his hands into the sides of his head. _Ai, Valar! What was in that mead?_ He tossed and turned some, trying to get comfortable.

It didn't work.

The light was too bright. He must have forgotten to pull the curtains…

Too early, too bright, the mother of all hangovers… Yes, this was shaping up to be _such_ a _lovely_ day. Especially since—

_Knock! Knock!_

Aragorn jumped from under the covers and wound up nearly falling out of bed. He threw himself over in the opposite direction at just the right time to avoid landing on his head on the floor. Now he was sprawled across his bed with his feet up somewhere near the pillows.

"Thorongil?"

Aragorn winced. Was her voice always so high pitched?

"Thorongil sir, you're going to be late!" She called from the other side of the door.

Aragorn cursed in Dwarfish as he rolled over and tried to pretend that Lindewyn wasn't there.

"You'll have to leave without any breakfast if you don't get up soon."

Aragorn groaned and it turned into a grumble. "Be right there!" He called out and instantly regretted it as the headache exploded behind his eyes and left a ringing in his ears. He hadn't felt this ill after a night of drinking since that time him and Legolas snuck a few bottles of Thranduil's private reserve. The headache faded back to its normal level of unbearable-ness with progressive and even steps that matched the retreating clunk of Lindewyn's wooden cane on the hardwood floor.

For all his discomfort and unenthusiastic thoughts about his day, Aragorn was up and out of bed, dressed, and ready to face the world in no more time than it usually took him. He opened the door to his bedroom and felt the assault of morning sunshine upon his sensitive optic nerves.

"I was beginning to think you'd sleep all day," Lindewyn half joked, half chided as she removed a pot from the stand over the hearth. Porridge for breakfast this morning. Bland, but adequate. It's too bad strawberries were out of season…

"And miss the caravan to Edoras?" Aragorn mumbled, failing at incredulousness as he sat down heavily in a chair. Already a tall glass of water was sitting in front of his place setting, next to a full pitcher—_bless you, Lindewyn!_

Aragorn drank greedily and soon refilled his glass. The water helped to sooth the headache as his body eased off the dehydration. When he looked up he saw a bowl of porridge sitting in front of him, sprinkled with cinnamon. Lindewyn had already served herself and was seated across from him.

"Whenever Folca and Fargold drank that much they wouldn't be out of bed until the following evening.

"If I fail to rendezvous with Folca in Edoras as planned something tells me I'd be in bed for at least a week once he's through with me."

Lindewyn laughed, her nose scrunching slightly as she did so. It was cute, the way her laugher made her eyes sparkle as her lips turned in a shy sort of smile. She had Bretta's coloring, but her hair was of a darker shade, and there were freckles dotting her tanned skin. If it weren't for her handicap doubtless she'd be married by now.

"Distant thoughts?"

"Hmm?" Aragorn was startled out of his musings by the object of his thoughts. Lindewyn was a beautiful woman with the warmth and light of a child dimmed by the loss of her parents and sister. She was sweet, and caring, yet painfully shy and quick to embarrass. And for all her strength, living as she is for as long as she has, there's an unmistakable fragility about her. She reminded him of single flower struggling to survive the winter, of Elanor growing just outside the reach of the Lady of Lothlórien.

"Oh, nothing. Hangover thoughts. Never mind." Aragorn sighed and continued to eat his porridge in silence. His thoughts of Lindewyn drifted to thoughts of Arwen, as they always did. In a way, she reminded him of his beloved; but where Lindewyn is the flower fighting a losing battle until the onset of spring Arwen is the shoreline forever suffering under the careless rages of the sea: always there, forever weathering and weathered.

"Y—you know," Lindewyn stuttered, looking over at him to barely make eye contact as she distracted him again. "If ev—ever you, you know, ever want to talk a—about anything…"

Aragorn inwardly winced, painfully. Could he tell her? Could he reveal to her why he was sometimes caught staring in her direction while she is farthest from his mind? Could he let her see his pain, his constant suffering brought on by merely being in her presence because she in a roundabout way reminds him of one with whom there is no comparison?

"It's nothing. But thank you."

Lindewyn shied away and began clearing the table. Aragorn felt guilty for shutting her out, but he would not inflict his sorrows upon her. Not when there wasn't anything to be done about them. He wouldn't be released of this pain until he stopped seeing Arwen's face every time he closed his eyes, so that he could stop hearing her laugh with every dance of Lindewyn's eyes or feel her soft caress with every tinkling ounce of laughter.

And the day that happens… Aragorn would rather be dead.

* * *

The entire éored had been summoned to Edoras. The caravan of those from their settlement was leaving late this morning, and to Aragorn's surprise he had been summoned as well. Thorongil was just the healer assigned to the Third Marshall's crippled sister and a sometimes arrow fletcher for the riders of the Third Mark. He wasn't a soldier by any means (at least that he has openly admitted). There were rumors of war in the White Mountains, so perhaps Folca thought his skills would be of greater use there?

Aragorn strapped his sword to his belt and swung his bow and quiver over his shoulder before mounting Ulmafan. He would find out soon enough.

"Take care," Lindewyn called out to him.

Thorongil tipped his head to her and waved. "Always do."

Their settlement was small by comparison, only boasting forty riders when fully assembled. However, only fifteen weren't currently at post, and these were the riders that Aragorn was to meet up with for the trip to Edoras. They expected to rendezvous with riders from other settlements along the road, however.

Thorongil knew the others he was riding with, just not very well. He fletched their arrows and helped them as a healer when needed, setting broken limbs or stitching gashes. He got along fine with these neighbors of his; they were a friendly bunch—much more so than he would have figured Riders of Rohan to be. They valued good food, good meads and ales, and a good story told around a roaring campfire. Softly spoken yet generally quick to anger if the right words are used, they reminded Aragorn a little of the dwarves he knew in the north. Yet these were men; men who valued family and homeland above secrecy and treasure and praise valor over wealth.

Aragorn had decided quickly that he liked them, and would fight for them if needed.

The two day ride to Edoras was uneventful. They didn't meet any other caravans the first day, and made camp shortly after sunset. Aragorn noticed with a kind of awkward pride that he was the first to get a fire going. The others had broken into groups of three and four and had their own fires lit soon after. Aragorn thought it was an overbold strategy, lighting many fires to fool any possible spy into thinking your numbers were greater than what they really were. He would have preferred stealth to showmanship, but then again he _was_ a ranger…

They drew lots for watch and Aragorn was one of the lucky three to draw a short straw. He was handed the second watch and told to get some rest for he would be awakened much sooner than his body would have liked. The riders thought that he had never been asked to keep a watch before, seeing as he came all the way to Rohan by himself from the wild and untamed North.

They were wrong.

Lindewyn had packed some bread and a little bit of salted meat for his supper, and Aragorn heated the bread by the fire and cooked the meat over the flames. He ate this meal in silence, observing his fellow riders do mostly the same depending on what their wives and mothers had given them. They all seemed content in their company and conversation, and with the heat of their five fires warming the night air sufficiently, Aragorn put his own fire out and stretched out on his bedroll to sleep.

He was awakened when the moon was high in the sky. The first watchman made his way cautiously to the sleeping ranger. He had just stepped into sword's reach when Aragorn shot bolt upright from his bedroll, his hand automatically finding his sword at his side.

"Easy!" The watchman croaked in a hoarse whisper.

Aragorn relaxed immediately. "My watch," he said more so than asked as he stood up and strapped his sword to his belt.

"The night's been quiet," said the watchman.

Aragorn nodded. "Get some sleep, Harding," he said as he walked from his bedroll.

The man Harding watched as Thorongil walked about the camp seemingly without making a sound. He knew Thorongil as the man who tended his mother when she burned her hand on the hearth. It unnerved him slightly that such a seemingly gentle man would startle awake so easily with a warrior's reaction. Harding made his way to his own bedroll and made himself comfortable as Aragorn finished his perimeter walk and moved to the highest of the gentle hills surrounding the camp sight.

"Man's a bloody elf," he muttered as he saw Aragorn stare at the stars for a bit before returning his gaze to the open country about them.

It was an uneventful watch, and Aragorn woke his relief with a little more than an hour left until dawn. It felt almost cruel to awaken a man so early, but then he remembered that the riders don't begin their day at dawn if not pressed for time. The dawn watch was still needed, for the riders intended to sleep past sunrise. It was yet another thing Aragorn filed away in his brain as being 'different' from what he was used to. Better or worse was not his place to judge.

The next day's ride was equally uneventful. Aragorn began to wonder if there was any truth to the rumors of war. He ate the rest of his bread for breakfast and was the first in the party to be ready to go. Some of the more observant riders in their party noticed that he left no traces of his personal campsite behind. To them Thorongil was just a healer who had decent skill in his hands. Some were impressed by these subtle revelations of other skill, the rest were merely curious; all knew better than to ask the healer about it.

Towards the end of the ride the party caught up with a much larger group. This group had over forty riders and welcomed the newcomers into their ranks wholeheartedly. Aragorn marveled at how family-oriented the people of Rohan were—and at their definitions of family.

The entire party arrived in Edoras in the early afternoon of the second day of traveling. Folca was at the gates to greet them personally, along with several other riders who had arrived there before them.

"Welcome, Riders of the Third Mark!" He called out in greeting. "I trust your journey was safely uninteresting?"

"Quite uninteresting, sir," a rider from the larger party remarked as he dismounted along with the rest of them.

"Very good!" Folca clapped his hands together. "Lead your horses to the pavilion and take the time to freshen up. Camps have been made outside the city for our use. My lieutenants will inform you of the current plan of things. However, right now I am due for a meeting with King Thengal, so if you'll excuse me?" Folca addressed the small crowd with a practiced air. There were nods and murmurs of consent, and Aragorn got the distinct impression that this was old routine for the riders he was with. He wordlessly dismounted and led Ulmafan by the reins, following the throng.

The 'pavilion,' it turns out, was a collection of large troughs for watering the horses. Aragorn let Ulmafan drink her fill and then followed the path from the pavilion out of the quarter and up the hill towards the camps.

When he reached the hill crest and saw the valley below he stopped short and gasped in awe. There were literally hundreds of tents there, which easily added up to… _thousands_ of riders!

The awe hit his stomach like a stone. Surely there was war.

Aragorn led Ulmafan down the hill towards the tents. There was a scribe sitting at the entrance at a makeshift table.

"Name and company?" He droned, bored and tired of asking the same question over and over again.

"Thorongil… of Strathcomb in the Third Mark."

The scribe nodded and shuffled sheaves of parchment around. "Can you write?" There was no assumption or judgment in the question.

"Yes." A quill was promptly shoved in his hands.

"Add your name to the list then. Third Mark is way in the back on your left. There'll be somebody there who'll know what to do with you."

Aragorn nodded as he signed his name, perfectly, in the script of the Rohirrim. He smiled slightly at his penmanship and thought fondly of Lindewyn and her lessons.

When he found the encampment for the Third Mark he had to repeat this process. Only this time he was expected.

"Did you say your name was Thorongil?"

Aragorn nodded.

"The lieutenant was asking about you. His is the biggest tent, you can't miss it."

Aragorn smirked and thanked the scribe. He found a clear spot of ground beside a half-full barracks-style tent and removed his gear from Ulmafan's saddle. He then stripped her tack and gave her a good rub down before turning her loose to graze. Aragorn stored his gear out of the way and went looking for the lieutenant's tent.

"Thorongil!" Aragorn turned around and saw the lieutenant jogging up the path behind him.

"Arlath," he said in greeting. He'd met Folca's chief lieutenant several times before on his monthly trips to Edoras for healing supplies.

"Folca wants to speak with you as soon as he gets done meeting with the King."

"Whatever for?" Aragorn couldn't help but ask. "I'm not one of his riders." Arlath laughed.

"No, but you are a retainer he can summon if he wills."

"Why would he will for me to be here? Does he plan on having _me_ fight in this war? I hate to think of our odds if he's calling out every last able-bodied man."

The lieutenant laughed, but there was a slightly uneasy edge to it. "I'm sure if you are to join us it will be for your healing skills," he pointed out. "Folca thinks very highly of you in that regard. Now, I've been instructed to have you wait in my tent until he arrives. Can't have him roaming the grounds aimlessly searching for you, after all."

Aragorn chuckled and nodded in assent. Like Folca, Arlath was an exuberant man of seemingly indomitable spirit. His good cheer was catching if one wasn't careful when in his presence.

The two men sat in the tent and discussed the weather, horses, how best to prepare rabbits and mushrooms, and anything else that bore no relevancy to the here and now. Aragorn was as uneasy as he was curious, but the former was kept tightly restrained lest Arlath glean it from him. Arlath himself seemed quite at ease, though Aragorn mused that he was the type of man to remain in good cheer even as the last of the battlements are falling. He reminded him slightly of Glorfindel in that way, right down to the sad, faraway look in his eyes that only surfaces when he thinks that no one's looking.

"Arlath!" Their meandering conversation was interrupted by Folca's booming voice.

"In here sir!" The lieutenant called out.

Aragorn rose to greet the Marshall, airing on the side of propriety given the formal and military setting. Arlath remained seated and poured a second glass of wine (Thorongil had politely declined in memory of his spectacular hangover two mornings ago). Folca entered the tent without preamble and crossed directly to the small table where Arlath was seated. Arlath stood, proffering the wine that was greatly welcomed. Aragorn stood at attention behind Arlath and waited to be addressed.

"Thank you, Arlath," said Folca after a considerable 'sip' of wine. "You have no idea how much I needed this right now."

Arlath smirked. "I can guess, sir. Is the reason a single name, or many?"

"Yes," Folca groaned. "The King's scouts have at last verified the information given to us by Gandalf the Gray. Now the council of advisors is up in arms, some crying for war, others crying for more information, some crying out 'I told you so', and others simply crying."

Folca took another long swig of wine. Aragorn tensed visibly at the mention of Gandalf but maintained his silence.

"Is it truly as severe as we were warned?" Arlath asked, a severity to his tone that Aragorn had never heard from him before.

Folca nodded gravely as he set down his empty wine glass. Arlath motioned to refill it but Folca waved him away. "Worse," he said plainly. "By five-score campfires at least."

"Five-score!" Arlath paled, and Aragorn was beginning to get nervous. "That increases the enemy's strength by half!"

"And that's a conservative estimate," Folca added.

Arlath clenched his jaw against further emotional reactions. Now was not the time. "Have the scouts deduced a reason for the orcs to be congregating in such large numbers?"

Aragorn's throat went dry. _Orcs?_

"Galmod thinks they're mining," Folca answered, his face contorting as though he swallowed something bitter.

"Galmod is a fool," Arlath dismissed. "Orcs don't mine. They steal from the dwarves."

"There are no dwarves around here," Folca pointed out.

That gave Arlath pause. "Orcs have never mined the White Mountains in all our recorded history," he said. "Surely those bands that have been plaguing Gondor don't import their weaponry."

"All they need comes from Mordor," Aragorn spoke at last. Both men turned to him, surprised—not only at the sudden reminder of his presence there but also at the fact that he had dared call the black land by name.

"Ah, Thorongil!" Folca greeted. Aragorn inclined his head politely to his liege lord. "I had almost forgotten that I had sent for you."

"Thorongil and I were having a rather pleasant conversation about dessert cakes when you had to interrupt us with your depressing news," Arlath said with a cheeky grin that earned him the cold glare he was aiming for.

"Been talking your ear off, has he?" Folca asked Aragorn. "He'll do that if you let him."

"We were merely biding time until your arrival," Aragorn replied.

Folca smiled and then sighed. "Always so formal, Thorongil," he stated. "Well perhaps we should take our cues from you then. We have much to discuss."

"So I gathered, lord."

"Thorongil, you can be formal and polite without having to refer to me by title. To you, in private such as we are, I am merely Folca, a man who owes you a great deal and hopes that you count him a friend."

Aragorn smiled a genuine smile; a rare event for him these days. "I am merely showing due respect for the man who gave me a home and a purpose in life such that a poor traveler did not deserve."

Folca laughed outright. "Do you hear this, Arlath? He is the reason my sister lives on through my beautiful niece and yet he still claims that my favor towards _him_ is grater than his towards _me_?"

"Humility among the Rohirrim?" Arlath mused. "We must stifle it here before the infection has the chance to spread." This earned him another glare from Folca, though in jest.

"My lords," Aragorn interrupted. "While this conversation is truly fascinating, I assure you, I would be very much obliged to find out why I have been summoned alongside an army, and if it be my place, to learn more of the nature of the direct problem at hand."

The men of Rohan sobered at once. "Of course, Thorongil," said Folca. "You have a right to know what you are doing here. Please, sit down."

There was more command than request in that statement and Araogorn complied. Arlath seated himself on the cot in the corner of the tent, and Folca took his vacated chair at the table.

"I'll be direct," Folca began, "Rohan is going to war." Aragorn couldn't stop his eyes from bulging. "Two months ago, Gandalf the Gray came with ill news: orcs have been milling about in the foothills of the White Mountains. He estimated two hundred campfires in the valleys to the west of Aldburg. Now we have learned that the number is closer to three hundred."

"Ten orcs to a campfire…" Aragorn mused.

Folca eyed him critically for a moment but then returned to his usual self. "Whatever reason the orcs have for amassing in such numbers, we cannot allow them to continue to do so. King Thengal has approved a motion to launch an offensive to try and route, or better yet, _eradicate_ the orcish infestation of our borders."

Aragorn slowly processed this information before finally nodding. "Gondor?"

Once again Folca was caught off guard. For a vagabond healer, Thorongil certainly seemed to know much of Rohan's ways of warfare.

"Gondor's eyes have been fixed ever eastward towards the Black Lands. True if we call for aid they are sworn to answer, but they cannot do so if helping us would leave them vulnerable."

Aragorn's eyes darkened. "Gondor has the largest standing army of the free lands of Arda. If the entirety of their force is needed at home than truly we have more dire things to worry about than three thousand orcs in the White Mountains."

"You see much, Thorongil of the North," Arlath spoke up. He rose from the cot and came to stand behind Folca. "Gondor has never refused aid in the past, and I doubt that Steward Ecthelion would do so now."

"Nevertheless," Folca continued, "King Thengal is wary to rely on Gondor charging to our aid. He would prefer for us to handle this on our own rather than trust to our allies. It would be… unfortunate, if a diplomatic incident arose _in addition to_ a war."

Aragorn snorted. "So you're saying that we aren't calling for help so that we can prevent hurt feelings when that help doesn't arrive because the only reason Gondor would have for refusing aid is a selfish one?"

Arlath laughed aloud at Aragorn's phrasing while Folca merely nodded. "This war will be our own," the Marshall said. "We should not look to help elsewhere than our own borders."

Aragorn's gaze settled on Folca and he instantly appeared serious. "My Lord, am _I_ to be considered among this 'help'?"

Folca eyed him critically for a moment before responding. "Once King Thengal sees how many soldiers he has at his disposal from each division a plan for an offensive will be devised. All that is known now, however, is that I will be leading this offensive."

Aragorn sat us straighter at that.

"Thorongil, the King may very well send my entire command into the White Mountains. If that proves to be the case… I'm going to need you by my side. Your healing skills are unequaled among the field medics of Rohan. Your services would be invaluable."

Aragorn nodded gravely. "I will help in whatever fashion I may," he replied.

Folca laughed and nodded approvingly. "I know you will, Thorongil." He clasped the younger man on the shoulder. "I know you will. But come! Tonight we feast, drink good ales, and tell tales around the campfire. Tomorrow we will make ready for war, but that is an entire evening away."

Folca laughed again and stood from his chair. He bade farewell to his lieutenant and made his way out of the tent, Aragorn in tow.

* * *

Indeed there was a great feast that evening. Ale was generously enjoyed by members of Folca's éored and many tales and songs were shared. Aragorn listened with attentive ears, for many of these were local to Rohan and he did not know them. Most were sung or spoken in the common tongue, for which Aragorn was glad. He had picked up enough of the language of Rohan to follow the un-translated stories, but he couldn't help but feel that many of the nuances were lost to him.

"Come, Thorongil! You must tell us a tale of your own!"

Aragorn grumbled silently. He _knew_ Folca wouldn't let him sit idlely by.

"Yes, yes! Let us hear a song from the North!"

"Delight our ears with something we have never heard before!" The crowd seemed rather intent that Aragorn join in the fun. He shrugged and pulled his seat forward, closer to the fire, and silently promised to repay Folca later.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a teller of tales," he confessed as soft firelight danced through the shadows on his face.

"Oh it matters not if you're good at it," said Arlath from across the fire. "We hardly have a good bard among us for comparison anyway."

"Well, I suppose that the consequences will be far worse for me if I don't even try…"

Laughter at that comment. Aragorn slowly picked through the songs and stories he knew by heart, which was (surprisingly to him) actually quite a lot. Yet for all the time he'd spent in the Hall of Fire, never had he offered forth a song or tale of his own. Sure he'd sung with the twins or his ada or Glorfindel when he was small, but the antics of an adan child are more likely to be forgiven than those of a grown man in a strange land.

"Very well," Aragorn began, having made up his mind. "This is a tale I learned when I was very small. It is a lay sung often in my homeland, though I doubt my voice will do it justice. It tells of the fall of Gil-Galad, the last High King of the elves in Middle Earth."

The others around the fire sat a little straighter, taking notice. Most had never heard tales of elves aside from those meant to frighten children into behaving. Those old enough to have spent time in war with men of Gondor might have recognized the name of Gil-Galad though. Nevertheless, all were curious.

Aragorn cleared his throat, and in a low, rather timid voice, began to softly sing.

_Gil-galad was an Elven-king.  
Of him the harpers sadly sing:  
the last whose realm was fair and free  
between the Mountains and the Sea._

_His sword was long, his lance was keen,  
his shining helm afar was seen;  
the countless stars of heaven's field  
were mirrored in his silver shield._

_But long ago he rode away,  
and where he dwelleth none can say;  
for into darkness fell his star  
in Mordor where the shadows are._

Everyone was still and quiet when Aragorn finished the lay. The words may have been translated into Westron and therefore didn't carry the almost mystical quality of the original Quenya, but even still, everyone was transfixed.

"A sad song, Master Thorongil," said Arlath after a time.

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully. "About a very sad occurrence," he answered.

"Gil-Galad…" Folca pondered aloud. "The name is familiar to me, though I cannot place it."

Aragorn smiled slightly. He didn't know what to make of the fact that a well-educated man of Rohan didn't know well the history of the Last Alliance.

"He was a great king of the elves," Aragorn replied. "He fought in the wars against Sauron in the second age and died at Dagorlad."

"The Battle of the Last Alliance!" An aged man spoke out on Aragorn's left. "They still sing songs of it in Gondor."

Nods of agreement around the campfire.

"Do you know much of this king, Thorongil?" A young man asked from across the campfire. Aragorn nodded after a moment. "Might you tell us then?"

Arlath laughed. "Please forgive Garulf his curiosity. Stories of elves have entranced him since boyhood."

Aragorn placed the age of the young man at slightly less than his own. He smiled as warmly as he could. "I know only what I've been told," he answered. "But if the others will hear it, I can briefly tell you what I have heard."

"Please!" The young Garulf was then embarrassed by his enthusiasm and sunk into his seat with a blush lighting his cheeks. Some of the others laughed, though not unkindly. "That is, I—if the others want to hear it also."

"Go ahead, Thorongil," Folca directed. "It would please the lad so."

Aragorn caught something in Folca's gaze; a level of seriousness underlying the good cheer. This was the eve of war, after all. This may be the last chance Garulf has to hear of elves before departing these shores for Mandos and beyond.

Aragorn sighed and collected his thoughts before beginning.

"Gil-Galad was born Ereinion, son of Fingon, High King of the elves in Middle Earth. Fingon inherited the title when his own father, Fingolfin, died at the hands of Morgoth himself during the first age." Those who recognized the name of the original Dark Lord paled slightly. Others looked confused, yet interested. Aragorn suppressed a laugh at what Erestor, his tutor, would think to know how little the edain of the South know of history.

"Fingon inherited the throne, but his rule was short-lived. He was slain shortly thereafter by a lord of demons in another battle of that age. Upon his death, his brother Turgon claimed the thrown and ruled from his fortress city of Gondolin. When that city was finally sacked, Fingon's son Ereinion had by then reached his majority, and so was pronounced the next High King."

"It seems your elves fought many wars," Arlath said to Garulf.

"In the first age, all was war," Thorongil interjected. "The elves fought for their very survival… or so tell the tales I know." Aragorn caught himself at the last minute. He certainly didn't want to reveal that he knew several elves from the first age personally.

"Can you continue, Master Thorongil?" Garluf asked with a childlike plea to his voice.

Aragorn couldn't help but smile, and Folca nodded to him to continue.

"Ereinion fought in those wars, and it was because of how brightly his helm shown in the light that he was named 'Gil-Galad,' which is just Elvish for 'Star of Radiance'."

"You speak Elvish?" Someone interrupted.

Aragorn didn't meet the man's eyes. "I know this tale," he replied.

"And you should continue it," Arlath prompted.

Aragorn suddenly wasn't feeling up to it. He knew exactly who had given Ereinion that name, and not long ago he could call that elf daeradar. He also knew well the elf that wrote that lay, for he was the one to first train him in the use of a sword. The memories stung like salt in wounds that would never close.

"Perhaps I will some day," Thorongil answered as he stood. "But for right now I fear that I am too tired give it the proper treatment it deserves. I bid you all good night." He nodded to the crowd and lazily saluted to them before turning and heading back to the barrack tent that held his bed for the night.

He was half way there when Folca caught up with him. "Thorongil!"

Aragorn stopped and turned. "Was my departure premature?" He asked, suddenly fearing rebuke.

Folca laughed dismissively. "Oh no," he reassured. "In fact, I happen to agree with you. The heat from the fire is working with the ale and I find I should retire, too."

Aragorn nodded and then resumed walking. The two walked in silence for a time.

"Have you any family in the north, Thorongil?" The question was sudden and Aragorn nearly stumbled.

"Sir?"

"You heard me. Have you any family? I know you have politely requested that we not talk about your past, and up until now I have had no reason to disregard your wishes. That is no longer the case."

"Have I done something wrong?" Aragorn didn't mean to sound so meek, and blamed it on how his previous thoughts.

Folca's demeanor softened. "Of course not," he reassured. "It's just that your tales of elves put me in the mind to wonder… Tomorrow noontide I will ride to war, and regardless of whatever else the King decides of my company, you will be at my side along with my éored."

"So you have said, lord."

Folca raised a hand for silence. "Thorongil…" He sighed, slightly unsure though he would never admit it. "Thorongil, I need to know who I must contact in the event that you do not make the ride home."

Realization settled into Aragorn's features and replaced the quiet curiosity. Folca saw acceptance, as though he was just forgiven for asking the forbidden question. He briefly wondered if he really would have needed it.

"I am an orphan, sir," Aragorn answered. "If I should fall, you may contact Gandalf the Gray. He will know how to best reach my—those who would be interested in knowing."

Folca studied Aragorn closely for several moments, wondering at what was nearly said and how fiercely Thorongil was fighting to keep his emotions from showing on his face.

"Very well, Thorongil," he acquiesced at length.

Aragorn sighed slightly in relief. "If there's nothing else sir…"

"Hmm? Oh! Yes, yes. You may retire. Good night, Thorongil."

* * *

Aragorn didn't sleep very well that night. His dreams were filled with visions of his Elven family. He would see himself with them, talking quietly with Erestor, laughing with the twins, sparing with Glorfindel, sitting in Celebrian's gardens with his ada… And all the while he saw himself there, and knew that it was a dream, and was made to see things that he could no longer have, yearn for a life that was no longer his. He had to watch such sweet, innocent happiness, and know that it could no longer be. He had to know that it was all a dream, and that he would wake soon, and the images would fade and leave him alone again. It was agony, not knowing when the dawn would come.

Yet come it did, and all too swiftly. He was dancing through fields of elanor with Arwen…

"Thorongil?"

Arlath's voice. He had just entered the barrack tent. Aragorn groaned and opened his eyes, relieved to be awake and ashamed at that relief. He could still catch the scent of Arwen's hair in the early morning air.

"I'm awake."

Arlath laughed. "You look it."

Aragorn sat up and swung his legs over the side of his cot.

"I suggest we break our fast early this morning," Arlath continued. "Folca will be returning shortly with our orders, and I have a feeling that crowds will not suit you after he returns."

Aragorn nodded dumbly, failing to acknowledge Artlath's perception.

The lieutenant led the way to a pavilion where food for the éored was being prepared. They dined in silence on cold bread and dried fruit—staples of a military diet. All through breakfast Aragorn felt Arlath's gaze sweep over him. The man seemed to be studying him, though for what reason Aragorn couldn't say.

"Is something on your mind?" Aragorn asked, a bit more bluntly than he would have liked. He shot Arlath an apologetic look, which was waved off.

"I apologize, Thorongil," he said. "But yes, there is something on my mind. You are very perceptive, Thorongil."

Aragorn inclined his head in acknowledgement. "What can I do for you, lieutenant?"

Arlath sighed. "Folca speaks very highly of you," he said. "I know that he is concerned about you, and his decision to bring you along on this war. I honestly feel that he would much prefer to keep you safely sequestered with his sister out of harm's way, but he cannot in good conscience leave behind the best healer in the éored."

"I have fought against orcs before," Aragorn volunteered. "In the vales of the Misty Mountains. I humbly accept my role as healer, yet rest assured that I am no stranger to the sword and bow at need."

Arlath nodded. "I suspected as much," he confessed. "You have the ways of a warrior about you. Your sword, while of fine craft, bares its share of marks, and your bow appears well cared for yet quite well broken in."

"Indeed, sir," Aragorn acknowledged. "We from the North are no strangers to battles against agents of the Dark Lord. Constant war is a way of life for us, too."

Arlath accepted this, and sighed. "Please don't think ill of me for being grateful for that," he said. "Folca has buried many people in his life, and I would hate to see him bury you, for surely his hopes for his sister would perish with you."

"You need not worry overmuch for me," Aragorn assured.

"That is well," said Arlath. "Now I should be getting back to my tent. Doubtless Folca will be returning soon."

* * *

Word had spread before the noon meal was served. King Thengal was ordering the entirety of Folca's éored into the White Mountains. That was nearly five thousand riders! It was up to Folca and Arlath to devise a plan as to how they were going to make this work for such was the style of the King to let the soldiers plan the wars.

The scouts' reports were translated into maps, and those maps into schematics and charts. Folca knew that at least half of his riders had never fought orcs before. Dunlanders sure, but never orcs; and of those who had, it was doubtful that any had fought under mountainous conditions, especially in winter.

If the reports were correct, than roughly three hundred orcs were hiding just above the tree-line. Folca had been very young the first and last time he fought orcs, but he remembered that battle clearly. So many riders had died…

During ideal conditions, Folca would want at least two men for every orc. However, conditions were far from ideal. The orcs would have an elevated, fortified position, and were of course much hardier than man when it comes to enduring elements; and since this was winter, Folca couldn't count on the sun to help them.

Folca sighed and rand a hand over his tired eyes. His men were marching into a cold, deadly trap, and he was preparing to lead the charge. Eru take them if a storm hits…

Finally he decided that he would lead a company of two thousand men into the mountains to deal with the orcs. The rest of his éored he would stagger about the base of the mountains, hopefully to cover and cut off all possible escape routes.

Two thousand men he would bring into battle in the mountains in winter to face orcs, the elements, and temperamental mountainsides. If their mission was a success (and failure is not an option), Folca predicted that at least five hundred men would fall, either to orc weapons and poison, or to avalanches, frostbite, and whatever else is thrown at them.

And that was a conservative estimate.

Folca cursed everyone and everything he could think of that might have been responsible for the delay between Gandalf delivering the information and action finally being sanctioned to do something about it. If only this was fall instead of winter.

If only.

"Shall I have the plans written up and sent to the king?"

"Hmm?" Folca's depressing musings were interrupted by his lieutenant. "Oh, yes, Arlath. Send for Waldon."

Arlath disappeared out of the tent and returned a moment later, the scribe in tow.

"Milord?"

Folca sighed and once more rubbed his bleary eyes. "Can you handle this, Arlath?"

The lieutenant nodded.

"Good. I must alert the men. With King Thengal's permission we ride at first light."

* * *

Permission was swiftly granted. By suppertime the entire camp was abuzz with the news. The third éored would deal with the problem in the White Mountains. The first and second éoreds would divide, sending as many men as needed in order to cover the watches and patrols of Folca's people. The King was optimistic, but then, monarchs need to be.

"Thorongil?"

Aragorn looked up when he heard Folca's voice. He had collected Ulmafan and was brushing her down. "She really is a beautiful mare."

Aragorn smiled. "That she is, sir."

Ulmafan nickered softly as if in agreement. Folca stroked her neck absently for a moment.

"I'm afraid you can't take her with you."

Aragorn's hands stilled. His gaze was both questioning and accusing. "Sir?"

"She was not trained in Rohan," Folca explained. "Our horses are bred for fighting together. She would not know how to behave when we ride together, and even one horse out of step could spell disaster."

Aragorn frowned pensively. "I'm sure she would do just fine, if you gave her the chance."

Folca shook his head. "I'm sorry, Thorongil." He stroked Ulmafan lovingly as if in apology. The mare snorted at him and he stopped. "The others claim that she was trained by elves. I've often wondered if there was truth to that statement, but right now it matters little. As much as I respect your judgment Thorongil, I will not jeopardize the lives of the riders near you because you ride a foreign horse. Another will be provided for you."

Aragorn remained still for many moments. What Folca said made sense. Ulmafan _was _a stranger to Rohan's horses, yet that still didn't convince him that she couldn't hold her own.

"As you wish," he acquiesced, not quite able to keep a touch of frost out of his voice.

Folca's eyes held sympathy. "Return you mare to the stables. A stable hand will provide another horse for you."

Aragorn nodded. He and Folca stood staring at each other for a moment longer, but then Folca turned away and headed back towards his tent. Aragorn sighed and continued to brush Ulmafan.

Perhaps it was safer for the unit if he rode another horse. That didn't necessarily mean that Aragorn felt it safer for _himself_.

* * *

The company rode out the following dawn. Aragorn was seated atop a stallion that answered to the name Frelaf. Aragorn could tell that he was a generic horse, no quirks or kinks about him. His gate was steady and his footing sure. If he could quickly instruct the beast in the ways of an Elvish rider than perhaps this relationship could work.

The White Mountains slowly grew larger on the horizon. Folca set a brisk pace, hoping to take advantage of this stretch of unnaturally warm weather while it holds. The ride out was silent and stern, with very few daring to make conversation. Aragorn suspected that, each in their own way, his fellow riders were doing their best to mentally prepare for the days ahead. He decided to take a cue from them and attempt to do the same.

It didn't work.

All Aragorn could think about was how this wasn't an Elvish horse beneath him, those weren't elves or even rangers riding beside him, and how for all their majesty those mountains ahead were ominous, cold, and unknown to him. The realization hit like a kick to the stomach, and perhaps it was due to the loss of Ulmafan, who up to now remained his final link to the Elf-friend ranger he had been, but Aragorn—who could never name himself thus, and who had already buried Estel on the long march southward, had finally been stripped of Strider, too. He was only Thorongil now. Thorongil of Rohan.

Looking around, Aragorn didn't recognize any of the faces riding near him. He didn't even know the horse beneath him. The country was strange, and their destination stranger. He felt lost, and alone, almost the way he had felt when storms would wake him at night and he would get lost running through the dark and shadowed hallways of the Last Homely House desperately searching for the room of the elf he had been bidden to call 'ada.'

Idly he wondered if his mother had felt this way when she first brought him to Imladris.

Soon enough the White Mountains filled the entirety of their vision. They were close enough to make camp. Folca divided his unit into sections, and sent those that would lie in wait for escaping orcs off to find their strongholds. Folca's appointed captains took their men and departed in groups by the hundreds. Aragorn marveled, feeling insignificant outside of and beside such an army.

In the end, Folca was left with his two thousand men. They set up barracks tents and tended to their horses, but Folca ordered there to be no fires. It was unlikely that the orcs would miss detecting their presence, seeing how they were such a large party, but that didn't mean the humans had to make it easy for them.

Aragorn tended to Frelaf. The stallion was docile and allowed Aragorn to do whatever he saw fit without question. Aragorn marveled slightly at that, at how a horse could be so trusting of a new master. Then he realized that it might have something to do with the myriad of Elvish songs he sang to himself on the ride over.

"How's your new mount?"

Folca emerged from somewhere in the shadows. Aragorn had heard him earlier, moving about, but hadn't truly paid attention.

"He's a good steed," Aragorn commented as he ran a soft brush over the stallion's back.

Folca nodded approvingly. "I'm glad. I know what it's like to suddenly need to get acquainted with a new horse."

Aragorn didn't ask; he could rightly guess the answer.

"Did you take your share of cold rations before we left home?" Folca then asked. Aragorn snorted. "Of course."

"Good. I suggest you eat well and then get some sleep. We'll be moving into the mountains tomorrow at first light, and I know better than to expect the weather to hold. Good food and a good night's rest will be our best allies up there."

Aragorn nodded. "Very good, sir."

Folca laughed slightly while sighing and shook his head. "Thorongil, please. What will it take to get you to drop the painful formality you cling to?"

Aragorn smirked. "We shall see, sir."

Folca threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine, have it your way." He laughed again and turned to go. "Just remember, in life there are more important things." And he made his exit.

Aragorn was still for many moments, thinking on what Folca said.

* * *

The next morning dawned cold and gray, and everyone was awake to greet it. Folca left a garrison behind to guard their base camp as well as the more permanent field hospital. Folca was readying his men for battle, already conferring with lieutenants and scouts as to what the best plan of action would be.

Aragorn was with the other medics as they continued to set up the field hospital. Bandages were being boiled and stored, herbs were being gathered, cots set up, and instruments sterilized over an open flame. As Aragorn roamed through the brush land looking for Athelas he couldn't help but wonder what exactly he will be expected to do. Was he to remain behind in the base camp manning the hospital, or was he to ride at Folca's side and use his skills as a medic in the field?

"How often was this your question, Ada?" He mused aloud as he uncovered a bit of leftover snow from an athelas plant. "How often did you wonder if Gil-Galad would send you into battle as opposed to having you stay behind to tend the wounded?"

Folca was waiting for him in the hospital tent when he returned with a basket full of healing herbs.

"I see they're keeping you busy, Thorongil," he greeted rather cheerfully.

Aragorn noticed that he was fully clad in studded leather armor, embossed with the emblems of Rohan and the symbols of his own noble house. It must be nearing time to ride.

"I know of several healing remedies that your healers do not. They have given me permission to gather herbs."

Folca nodded, seemingly pleased. "That is well. I know the men feel much safer for the luxury of trusting in your skills."

Aragorn shied slightly at the open compliment. Then he grew serious. He needed an answer: was to ride, or was he to remain?

"My Lord, if I may, what are my orders?"

Folca laughed at the uncharacteristic boldness, but there was sadness in it. "I do suppose I have been remiss in instructing you," he conceded. "I hope you can forgive me for stringing you along thus far without any real explanations." Now Folca sighed, as though stalling for time. "Thorongil, you are a healer of the highest quality. As such, I need you where the most can benefit from your skills. If I were to take you into the field, not only would I be jeopardizing your life, but I would be cutting most of the men off from you, and that jeopardizes their lives as well." If possible, Folca became even _more_ serious right then. "Thorongil, your official orders are to stay here, attached to the field hospital. You report only to the senior healer, but he has been advised that it would be prudent to listen to your judgment in certain cases. Are your orders clear to you, Thorongil of Strathcomb?"

Aragorn may have appeared to remain stoic, but inside he was reeling. He had expected to ride out with Folca. In fact, he was counting on it, hoping for it even. He knew his skills in battle would be of valuable use to Folca, especially since he was no stranger to fighting in cold, mountainous conditions. He rightly chanced that not many soldiers of Rohan could spot the telltale signs of an impending avalanche or rockslide.

Unfortunately, Folca had ordered him to stay put. What's more, they way he had set it placed quite a bit of responsibility on Aragorn's shoulders. The entire éored was counting on him to be there to dress their wounds. What right did he have to protest Folca's decision when thousands of lives might suffer for it?

"They are clear, Lord Folca."

Folca nodded gravely, but his eyes were glowing with something akin to pride. "Very good." He smiled cheerfully for a moment before growing serious again. He thrust an arm forward, and Aragorn caught it in a firm warrior's handshake. "Take care, Thorongil. When we next meet, it will be on the heels of victory!"

Aragorn smiled another of his rare, genuine smiles. However, when Folca released his arm he quickly brought that hand up and clasped Folca's shoulder. Aragorn brought his other hand to cover his heart, and gave a very purposeful nod of the head. Then he spoke softly yet deliberately in Quenya:

"Nai herunúmen lle tiruva, Folca Rohan heru."

Folca blinked in surprise, but somehow he deduced that he should mirror Thorongil, and so he grabbed his opposite shoulder, and brought a hand to cover his own heart.

"Wes ðu hal, Thorongil norðan," Folca replied in his own tongue. They held eye contact for a lingering moment, then abruptly the moment ended. They dropped hands and both men shied away.

"I must go," Folca announced.

Aragorn nodded. "I'll see you soon."

"Yes… soon."

Folca walked out of the tent without looking back. Aragorn stood there staring after him for a time, whispering silent prayer to return his friend—and all the sons of Rohan, home safely from battle. Then he returned to his forgotten basket of herbs and to his duties as a healer.

Folca and what was left of his éored departed the camp shortly thereafter. Horses were resigned to being pack animals, carrying field supplies and arrows. The men marched on foot into the steep mountain passes beneath the watchful gaze of the garrison left behind to guard the camp and hospital until they disappeared from view beneath the swift sunset of winter. In the dark, a light snow began to fall over the mountains.

* * *

Thorongil was assigned to the master healer, which put him on par with the three other senior healers. If any of them felt affronted by his seemingly sudden promotion none let on. Apparently word of how he birthed Bretta's baby had spread wide indeed.

Aragorn and his four companions also had at their disposal seven apprentice healers to act as nursemaids and to obey the orders of their superiors. That made for a grand total of twelve healers in the hospital tent, and Aragorn couldn't help but feel contently at ease with their numbers. If everyone in Imladris is home when a medical emergency hit, then only Elrond, Glorfindel, and the twins had any great skill at healing (discluding himself, of course). The number of junior and apprentice healers under Elrond had dwindled considerably in the lateness of the Third Age. Of course, a healer of Elrond's caliber is worth a dozen more ordinary souls.

Aragorn ceased these thoughts in a hurry. Thinking on his home and family would only serve to distract him when the casualties started pouring in.

The entire hospital was ready well before sunset, many hands having made light work. Still, Aragorn didn't choose to lounge around with the rest of the healers as they told stories and mingled with the garrison. Nor did he venture forth to the soldiers and ask to partake of the watch—sorely tempted though he was. No, Aragorn was still foraging for herbs; right up until it was too dark to risk stumbling around on the frozen and uneven ground. He had the sinking feeling that no matter how much athelas, gammer's root, or canterweed he gathered, it would never be enough.

After sunset, Aragorn tried to smother his anxiety with routine. He claimed a cot in the hospital and took out his sword and whetstone. Even though he was supposed to act only as a healer, something told him that it would be best to keep his sword handy anyway. Maybe it was just nerves telling him that. Aragorn sincerely hoped it was.

"You do that like you have much practice."

Aragorn was startled when the apprentice healer that was shredding excess cloth for more bandages (at Aragorn's request) on the cot next to him finally spoke. He stopped what he was doing and looked over at the apprentice.

"This sword was a gift from my father when I came of age," he explained to the young man who appeared no older than Aragorn was.

The apprentice smiled fondly. "I inherited my father's sword when he died, four years before I was counted a man."

Aragorn blinked in slight confusion. Usually apprentice healers are brought into the business by their fathers, much like any other trade.

"Your father was not a healer, then?"

The apprentice laughed. "No," he confessed. "My father rode with Thengal's éored ere he became king. He died fighting the Dunlanders."

"And you did not become a soldier?"

The apprentice's eyes darkened, the ghosts of brightly remembered pain flickering across his features in the soft firelight.

"My father died trying to save my older brother. It was his first major battle, and he fell early. When my mother received word that both her husband and eldest son had perished… I promised her that I would never ride out to war."

"So you became a healer instead," Aragorn concluded in approval.

The apprentice shrugged. "My mother's sister married a healer. They helped me to enter the guild."

Aragorn nodded. "It is a worthy profession..."

"Eolad," the apprentice supplied.

Aragorn smiled. "Eolad," he repeated, tasting the word and committing it to memory. He then stuck out a hand. "Thorongil," he introduced himself.

The apprentice readily accepted the handshake. "I know," he said. "Every healer in Rohan has heard of the great Thorongil of Strathcomb."

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "Surely it is not that bad…"

Eolad laughed. "Take credit where it is due, Thorongil. There is none other that could have saved Lady Bretta's baby."

Aragorn shrugged it off. "It is a technique that has been done successfully many times in the North."

Eolad laughed again. "Friend Thorongil, I believe your skills as a healer are outpaced only by your unending modesty. If not that delivery then surely there must be something you _can_ brag about!"

The good humor failed to rub off on Aragorn. He sighed.

"I am just an orphan who had the good fortune to be fostered by a few of the good souls left in middle earth. I learned to use this sword—" Aragorn indicated the weapon as he spoke, "—and heal a wound or two ere I came here, but truly you would not think of me so highly if you knew the reasons why I left my home."

Eolad pursed his lips in silent consideration. "You have your secrets, master Thorongil," he said at length. "That is as widely rumored as your healing skills. I am sure that there are greater men than I who have tried, and failed, to drag them from you. I know no more or less about you now than I did before we started talking—except of course that your foster father gave you that sword. Yet though I may not know anything of relevance about you, friend Thorongil, I must beg you to believe that I do not care about such tings. Your secrets are your own, and your past you may guard as closely as you will—I will not press you. All I know is that you are a healer of considerable skill with a quiet and unselfish manor about you. That is the reason you are thought of so highly, Thorongil. Your demons remain in the North. They did not follow you here." That being said, Eolad went back to tearing cloth for bandages.

Aragorn sat still and silent for a time, thinking on what Eolad had said to him. It made him feel welcomed here, and accepted, to know that people were only judging him on what they've seen with their own two eyes. He was reminded yet again that not all of Arda knows his shameful secrets, and that was a good thing to keep in mind.

He sighed heavily and went back to sharpening his sword. It didn't matter what the people of Rohan knew. _He _was still very much aware of his past, and that damning shame that stays his tongue and restrains the hand of friendship was part of his penance to be served in this foreign land. He reassured himself thusly and resigned himself to his fate with every stroke of the whetstone.

* * *

The days were quiet after the soldiers left and the nights more so. Tensions slowly rose in camp as the mounting anxiety and anticipation began wearing on everyone's nerves. They all knew that at any moment, casualties were going to start pouring into their camp, and with them would come the first reports. Until then, they had no idea how the battle was fairing, and it was the not knowing that was driving the men insane.

Aragorn busied himself every day by gathering more herbs. Occasionally another healer would go with him, more to alleviate the tedium than anything else. Soon enough though there was nothing of worth left to find in the immediate area around the campsite, and the master healer refused Aragorn's request to go out and search farther from camp. Now there was truly nothing left for him to do but wait along with everyone else.

On the third evening that they were there, before the moon had risen high in the sky, Aragorn had found his way out to the outskirts of camp. He was standing in ankle-deep snow with his cloak pulled tightly about him for warmth. The moon was nearly full tonight, and it lit up the sky bright enough to see the mountains around them. Aragorn was staring up at those shadowed peaks now, in the general direction that Folca had led his men.

"You'll catch your death out here." Eolad said as he came to stand at Aragorn's side. Aragorn had heard the apprentice healer's approach as his boots crunched in the snow, but he paid no real heed.

"Do you hear it?" Aragorn whispered once Eolad was still.

Eolad craned his neck, trying to pick up whatever it was Thorongil was referring to. "I hear nothing."

Aragorn was silent, his gaze trained on the mountain.

"Thorongil?"

"A battle rages on the mountain. The shouts of men and the clash of metal can be heard intermittently. It won't be long before our camp is made useful."

Eolad cupped a hand to his ear and tried again. "Are you certain you aren't just imagining things, Thorongil?" He asked, bringing his hand back inside his cloak for warmth.

Aragorn spared him a small chuckle. "Well be getting the first casualties just before dawn," he announced. "I must warn the other healers to prepare." With that said Aragorn turned and left.

Eolad watched his retreat, noticing how Thorongil effortlessly found his own footprints to step in, making movement easier. The snow barely crunched beneath the man's feet, and Eolad momentarily marveled that perhaps the more audacious rumors were true and their mysterious healer from the north was _indeed_ an elf in disguise.

After a few more moments of trying to hear something—anything—from the mountain, Eolad gave up and returned to camp. It was cold, and the hour grows late, and if Thorongil is correct that it would be best if the healers were well rested.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Adar/ada_: father/dad

_Arda_: the world

_Daeradar_: grandfather

_Adan/edain_: human/humans or human race

_Nai herunúmen lle tiruva, Folca Rohan heru_: (Quenya) May the Lords of the West watch over you, Folca Lord of Rohan.

_Wes ðu hal, Thorongil norðan_: (Language of Rohan (lit: Anglo-Saxon) Be thou well, Thorongil of the North

**Credits: **The poem _The Fall of Gil-Galad _was taken from _The Fellowship of the Ring_.


	9. Ch 6b: Thorongil's first war, part 2

Aragorn knew better than to try and sleep, and so he spent his time setting pots to boil, melting snow for water, and making sure the herbs were sorted and easily accessible. The other healers did not believe him when he told them that they had until dawn to prepare for incoming wounded, but they did not hinder his efforts at readiness either.

Unfortunately, Thorongil's word was proven right.

Suddenly a horn blew, and then answering calls. Then the men of the garrison started shouting, barking orders and making ready. Aragorn ignored it all, of course. He knew what was happening, and he knew what his task was. He grabbed a small pouch of herbs and bandages and went out to wait for the casualties to arrive, having assigned himself to triage duty without asking.

Soon horses came into view, picking their way swiftly but carefully down the mountain. These were the pack horses from earlier, now made to carry passengers again. The wounded were seated two and three to a horse, and in the fading moonlight as the sun made ready to rise Aragorn could make out thin dark trails behind the horses. Many of the wounds were severe.

"To the horses!" Came a shout, Aragorn supposed from the head healer. The men of the garrison helped the healers to relieve the horses of their burden, and so some nameless soldier helped Aragorn to ease an injured man from his mount. The poor soul had a black arrow protruding from high in his chest, and his eyes were bright with fever.

"Easy now, we will take care of you," Aragorn soothed him as he rummaged blindly in his pouch for herbs and bandages. Then in swift and deliberate action, he snapped the arrow shaft off not an inch above the man's flesh. The injured soldier cried out in pain, but no sooner had he done that was Aragorn packing herbs about the remainder of the shaft and securing it all with a wad of bandage.

"Take him inside!" Aragorn called out. Two garrison soldiers materialized at his side. "He needs treatment immediately!" And the poor soldier was carried away, just in time for Aragorn to move on to the next casualty lying in the snow nearby with garrison soldiers hovering beside him.

"Out of the way!" Aragorn cried as he pushed one soldier over. Aragorn ignored all protests as he began sizing up the injuries. The man had a puncture wound from an orcish blade in his abdomen, two inches above the navel. It didn't appear all that deep—his armor, that someone must have removed to examine the wound, deflected most of the blade.

"You'll be all right," Aragorn assured the man as he packed the wound with athelas and bandages. Then, to the waiting soldiers: "Take him inside! Hurry!"

Aragorn spent his time thusly, tending to the wounded when first they arrived, as the moon fell and the pre-dawn mist made everything a hazy gray, and cold. The dark stains in the snow were bright red now beneath the light of the rising sun.

Aragorn didn't have time to contemplate the scope of the carnage that surrounded him, however. After the blade wound, he found a soldier that took an orcish club to the helm, which shattered beneath the impact. Aragorn did what he could for the man and sent him inside with the rest, though analytically he doubted whether or not the man would ever awaken again.

Aragorn shoved those thoughts aside as he found the next patient, and the next, and then the next. By now they were coming in on their own two feet, stumbling, staggering, falling down, desperately trying to carry their comrades, and dropping them when their own wounds made the burden too heavy. There were shouts of pain, cries of anguish, and orders were shouted back and forth: _take this one inside! I need more bandages! Quick, hold him down! No, take this one to the other side of camp. We'll bury him later._

Aragorn blocked out all these sounds, save for the ones telling him where the next triage patient was lying. And he blocked out all the smells, aside from that of healing herbs, so that he could ignore the stench of blood and bowels and death and putrescence as men's lives leeched out beneath his fingers as he tried to save them. And he refused to see how the warmth of bodily fluids melted the snow and turned it to slush and mud, stained red or sickly yellow and green, and how it all mixed together eventually, and stained his clothes beyond repair as he knelt beside his latest patient and tried in vain to put the man's small intestine back where it belonged.

When Aragorn's pack ran out he ordered someone to fetch more herbs and bandages… and again… and again… and again until the athelas ran out sometime before the sun had climbed high in the sky and the fresh bandages he was getting were soiled, boiled to sterilize them but not thoroughly washed. Just as Aragorn was forced to reach for his own dagger to amputate an unsalvageable arm and secure the stump with a tourniquet ripped from his own cloak he heard his name being called above the din.

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn sat back on his heels in the muck and gore, still oblivious, and tried to figure out who was calling him.

"Ai! Thorongil!"

Eolad. It was Eolad who was running up to him from the entrance to the hospital. The apprentice was so covered in blood and other substances, even in his hair and staining his face, that Aragorn hadn't immediately recognized him.

"Eolad…"

"You're needed in the hospital now, Thorongil," Eolad informed him. "Let the apprentices handle triage!"

Aragorn nodded mutely and allowed Eolad to help him to his feet—a move that nearly sent him sprawling on his back, so slippery with blood were both their hands.

"Take this," Aragorn said as he handed his triage back to Eolad. Eolad accepted it and nodded in thanks. Then the next casualty was brought over—one soldier carrying another and screaming bloody murder for a healer to save his brother. Aragorn left Eolad to it and returned to the hospital.

The sight inside the hospital was no better than that outside. The healers were crowded around makeshift cots, barking out orders to random soldiers suddenly promoted to nurses and orderlies. Used bandages were piled waist-high, and in one corner men were boiling them—along with melting new water and cleaning surgical equipment over open flames. The wounded were put on cots along the walls of the hospital tent, and soldiers were rapidly shifting those beds around to accommodate the steadily increasing volume of wounded soldiers, and still others were bringing cots in from the garrison's barracks to add to the hospital's dwindling supply.

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn was startled out of his mini-reverie by someone shouting his name. There was a wounded soldier on one of the surgical benched that he didn't remember as having been there when he walked in.

"Thorongil! Get to it!"

Aragorn knew then that _he_ was the healer assigned to that bench, and the soldier lying there now was waiting for _him_ to help him.

"Ai Elbereth…" And he was at the soldier's side, dunking his soiled hands in the wash basin and preparing for the task at hand.

Aragorn worked tirelessly for countless hours. The first soldier he treated—lacerated femoral artery and a verifiable miracle he had survived this long—was stitched up and carted off only to be replaced by another. This one had an arrow protruding from his hip, which the apprentice on triage had snapped off but not fully removed. Aragorn hastily cut it free and stitched the wound closed. He added herbs to the poultice and sent the soldier away. The third casualty had taken an orcish scimitar to the chest. He drowned in his own blood even before Aragorn could fully assess the extent of the damage to his lungs. This soldier was taken away, just like the rest, and Aragorn didn't have time to dwell on the loss before another soldier was placed before him.

On through the day they worked, the healers in their hospital, and still the wounded kept trickling in. At times there were no life-threatening cases, and Aragorn found himself merely setting limbs or stitching non-fatal wounds. These poor soldiers would then mount a fresh horse as soon as they were released from care and set off at full gallop back up the mountain side, even if they had to hold a sword in their off hand or if their ability to shoot a bow would only suffice now from horseback.

These precious few lulls were never long enough, however. Always the pace would quicken and the dying would take precedence once again.

The sun climbed past its zenith, and still the wounded came.

The bandages no-longer held anything of their original color. They were permanently stained in morbid hues of reds and browns, and so overused that Aragorn could no longer tell by texture if it had been a bandage, or a shredded bit of cloak or tunic or even bit of tent, so desperate were they for bits of cloth.

Shadows lengthened into afternoon, and Aragorn had to amputate another limb. Hopefully this one would live long enough to hate him for it.

The snow around the hospital tent had receded considerably by now, as it was gathered into pots and pans and melted and boiled for water. One now had to travel ten paces in any direction in order to gather enough snow to be useful.

The air grew chilled as the sun retreated behind the western mountains, and Aragorn stitched up a gaping hole in one man's belly only to realize too late that the poor soul had stopped breathing and was growing cold.

There were no cots left, not even in the garrison, where the wounded were being moved when at some point it was decided that the hospital itself was too small. Now bedrolls were being offered up. Talk was made that soon, cloaks would be needed to rest the wounded upon. That is, if any are left after the mad rush to find scraps for bandages.

Twilight fell, and Aragorn noticed that some of the minor wounds he'd treated earlier were already up and walking around, either trying to get back to the front or trying to offer aid. Soldiers of the garrison shouted that more horses were arriving. Aragorn didn't really have time to wonder when the poor beasts' coats would ever be clean of the stain. More hoof beats then as the walking wounded remounted and returned to battle. Candles and lanterns were lit as now there was not enough daylight to see by.

Sometime after dark, long after the athelas had run out, and the wormwood and the lavender and gammer's root had run out, the hardest blow was felt:

"He's waking up!" Aragorn called out. "I need more canterweed!"

"I'm sorry, sir," said a very young apprentice healer.

Aragorn looked up from the arrow wound he was dealing with.

"There isn't any."

Aragorn thought that his knees would give out. "You mean, we don't have anything with which to anesthetize the wounded?"

"That's precisely what he means," the master healer called out from his own surgical cot. He was stitching closed a ghastly wound on one soldier's back. The soldier on Aragorn's cot moaned slightly and tried to move. Aragorn grabbed the man's shoulders and in a panicked voice cried out:

"But how can we treat their wounds when they're still awake? If this one moves as I work to remove the arrow it could be fatal!"

The master healer's voice was infuriatingly calm as he replied: "Then I suggest you recruit some soldiers to hold him down."

And so Aragorn and the other healers worked, on throughout the night, intentionally blocking out the sound of screams and gasps and moans as their patients felt the full brunt of the treatments to save them. Aragorn had enlisted the aid of five garrison soldiers at times to help restrain his patients as he struggled to save their lives.

He only hoped that, in time, he could block out the memory of their screaming.

The herb supply was dwindling, the bed supply was gone, and it was worried that the sinew would run out next. Already the soldiers were told that they would be cutting strands from horsetails as soon as they returned to camp.

At least they wouldn't run out of water. It was snowing again.

Sometime after the moon had reached zenith but before the predawn mist crept into their camp, the flow of wounded finally trickled to a stop. The last of the minor wounds that before had been told to wait were taken care of, and those that were able took the few remaining horses and returned up the mountain. The rest were shown to cots or bedrolls or cloaks—whichever had just been vacated by a dying soldier—so that they too could finally rest.

Aragorn braced himself against his surgical cot with a tired, moaning sigh. There wasn't a single spec of wood on the cot that wasn't stained with blood and gore. Aragorn had tried to keep the surface as clean as possible, but soon the rags were confiscated for bandages and the water was needed elsewhere.

A few deep, calming breaths wherein he nearly wretched from the stench of blood and death and fluids, and Aragorn pushed back on his heels and stood up straight again. He reached a tired hand back to brush his hair out of his eyes, but only wound up streaking blood onto his forehead, somehow finding a spot that wasn't previously stained in the process. At least he hadn't noticed how his hair was thick and crusty in places now from the dried… substances… that had managed to find their way there.

"Thorongil?"

Aragorn startled at the sound of his name. Almost everyone had moved to the barracks where the treated casualties were being housed. He turned to see Eolad standing beside him, equally disheveled from the day's activities.

"Eolad," Aragorn nodded to him in greeting. Then it seemed as though the two healers had nothing more to say.

"Come," Eolad said softly after a time. "They've gathered more water. The Master Healer has decided that we can clean ourselves up now."

Aragorn nodded dumbly, completely lost for words. He allowed Eolad to lead him from the hospital tent and over behind the barracks tent. Several large bowls were set there, along with what could be had of clean rags, for the healers to clean themselves with.

Aragorn claimed a bowl and slowly dunked his hands in it. It was still warm from having recently been melted, and as he watched the stains gradually leave his hands and take residence in the water suddenly his fingers were no longer fingers but the insides of young blond-haired boys, their insides drowning in their own juices. Aragorn withdrew his hands quickly as if burned, but didn't have time to think more on because he doubled over and wretched, taking out the small stand that held his washbowl in the process.

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn was on his hands and knees in the frozen mud, grasping at it weekly as his stomach went through dry heave after dry heave. He closed his eyes and smelt the death around them, tasted it on his tongue and nearly wretched again. Fortunately he hadn't eaten anything in nearly a day, so there wasn't much in his stomach to expel.

Finally the tremors ceased. Aragorn wiped the edge of his mouth with the back of his hand and didn't even taste the blood that transferred there. Eolad was kneeling beside him, and now he met the apprentice's concerned gaze.

"I'm all right," he answered tiredly, his cheeks remaining flushed due to embarrassment.

"Of course," Eolad agreed neutrally, placing a hand soothingly on Aragorn's back. "Come on, let's try that again."

Eolad stood without even noticing how his leggings were newly stained by Aragorn's vomit, so stained they were with the fluids of everyone else he had come across that day. Wordlessly he offered Aragorn a hand up, though this time the grip remained sure. A garrison soldier was already bringing over another bowl of water, and Eolad thanked him.

Aragorn tried again, this time succeeding in washing his hands. He accepted a fresh rag from Eolad and scrubbed his arms, face, and neck. His hair he didn't care about and he had a spare tunic in his pack back in the barracks.

…

No he didn't. It was used for bandages hours ago.

Aragorn sighed tiredly. By Eru, he was exhausted, and he couldn't care less about what he looked like right now.

"Thorongil! Eolad!"

The two healers turned around and saw a garrison soldier jogging towards them.

"Yes, Ceorl?" Apparently Eolad knew him. Aragorn felt badly that he did not.

"They'll be burning the dead soon," the soldier told them.

Eolad nodded. "We'll be there presently."

The soldier nodded once and jogged back to where he came from. Aragorn tried really hard to formulate the words to voice his question, but all he succeeded in doing was wagging his jaw several times, emitting no sound. Eolad took pity on him though, and anticipated what he was trying to ask.

"It's too cold to bury the dead," he informed. "There are too many of them to carry back with us at this far a ride, so we burn them instead. The fires will help keep the living from freezing to death."

Aragorn nodded in belated understanding. "I take it there is ceremony involved?"

Eolad smiled sadly. "Yes, and we are expected to attend."

Aragorn and Eolad made their way over to where the deceased were stacked. It was an odd sight, seeing three piles of human bodies stacked chest-high like bricks waiting for the kiln. The stench was unbarable, and Aragorn couldn't help but search the visible faces for signs of recognition. Everyone in the garrison was present, including all the healers and those of the wounded that were still relatively mobile. Many had tearstained faces, recognizing kin amongst the bodies. Aragorn felt sorry for their loss, and even worse that he didn't take the time to get to know these poor souls when he had the chance.

The captain in charge of the garrison was speaking now, in the language of the Rohirrim. Aragorn understood most of what was said at first, but they the words melted into song, and it seemed as though everyone else began singing along, though with different words here and there from their compatriots, and in different keys with different tempos. Aragorn soon became lost in the dirge, this cacophony of sorrow that swirled around them and swallowed them whole. He closed his eyes and offered his own softly spoken prayer for the souls of the dead as the towers of bodies were set ablaze.

"Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath."

Sometime after the lighting of the pyres and before dawn broke in the eastern sky, the denizens of the base camp were allowed to find rest. Much of the garrison was sleeping now, on their cloaks and huddled together for warmth in their own makeshift shelters. The healers were resting in shifts so that they could still tend to the wounded in the barracks and the hospital.

Aragorn had volunteered for first watch, and he spent his time checking pulses, monitoring breathing, and changing bandages. One soldier died while on his watch, and Aragorn had to wake two soldiers from the garrison to carry the body over to a pyre. He couldn't leave his charges unattended.

After the soldiers had gone, Aragorn took the used bandages removed from the soldier and put them in a pot to boil. Had he thought of it then, he would have ordered the soldier stripped so that his very clothes could be used for bandages. As the scent of burning flesh wafted through the hospital again, Aragorn was very glad he hadn't thought of it then.

Another healer relieved him of his watch just before dawn. Now it was Aragorn's turn to try and find rest. He left the barracks tent and wandered back towards the hospital. His feet dragged heavily through the freshly fallen snow, no longer reminding anyone of elves.

Aragorn made his way into the hospital tent and over to his surgery. The wood had dried now, but was still irrevocably stained. The smell was putrid, but not as bad as the air outside. This tent was downwind of the pyres. Aragorn hoisted himself up onto the cot and curled into a ball on his side, hugging himself for warmth in the remains of his torn cloak. He was asleep before the sun fully rose as red ball of flame in the east.

* * *

Aragorn didn't get to sleep for long. Sometime before the sun had reached its zenith the sounds of voices woke him.

"Quickly! Bring him in here!"

Aragorn was instantly alert. He sat bolt upright on the cot and saw one of the healers directing a soldier of the garrison, who was carrying a wounded man. Aragorn swung his feet over the cot and stood up as the healer directed the patient to be placed on a vacant cot.

"Please…" The man rasped, wincing in pain even as he did so. He had an orc's arrow in his back, the tip coming partially through his left shoulder. The healer and the soldier had eased the man into a reclining position.

"Just relax," the healer instructed as he used a knife to cut away the straps of the man's shirt. "We'll take care of you."

"No…" The man groaned. "Need… I need to speak to… captain…"

"I'm sure you do," the healer placated without really listening. He pulled the man's shirt away from the wound and the man gasped. "But it can wait until I remove this arrow."

The man shook his head in jerky, exaggerated movements. Aragorn recognized that a fever was already setting in. No doubt the arrow was poisoned.

"Can't wait…"

Suddenly something clicked in Aragorn's brain. He strode purposely forward declaring, "He's a scout!"

The garrison soldier took notice but the healer was too bust getting a firm grip on the arrow shaft. The man turned fever-bright eyes to Aragorn, trying desperately to convey his message in the instant before the healer snapped off the shaft and the man cried out in pain. Aragorn then shifted his gaze to the garrison soldier, and their eyes met in a knowing look.

"I'll fetch the captain!" The soldier announced, and then he quickly fled. The healer gave Aragorn an annoyed glance before he began to push the severed arrow shaft the rest of the way through. The man groaned through the pain, seemingly no longer capable of crying out. Aragorn moved forward and grabbed a handful of herbs and sprinkled them onto a fresh bandage.

"Will you stitch the entry point first, or the exit?" He asked the healer. The scout was fading, his eyes blinking rapidly as he fought to remain conscious. Aragorn noted with admiration how he tried to use the pain to focus his addled brain. He hoped that the captain would arrive soon so that the scout could make his report.

"Entry," the healer informed him. Then with one final push the arrow came free. Aragorn clamped the bandage over the exit point to staunch the blood flow while the other healer concentrated on the entry point. The healer nodded to Aragorn in appreciation.

"What is it?" A new voice suddenly called out. Aragorn's head snapped around and he saw the captain of the garrison entering the hospital tent. He swiftly made his way to the semi-conscious scout. "What news of the front?"

The scout blinked and shook his head, fighting desperately against the poisons coursing through his system. "The battle, sir…" he ground out through grit teeth. "Going well."

Aragorn nearly balked at that. If all these casualties were from a battle gone well, then what in Eru's name happens when one goes poorly? The scout coughed once and blood formed on his lips. Aragorn closed his eyes in agonizing defeat. The arrow must have nicked a lung.

"And?" The captain prompted impatiently.

The scout shook his head again, fighting the lure of unconsciousness. "Many orcs… dead… Rest… fleeing." Both Aragorn and the captain smiled.

"This is wonderful news!" The captain was fairly young. He couldn't contain his joy. The scout shook his head again, more violently this time. He coughed and struggled and the healer looked to Aragorn to hold him down. Aragorn did so.

"Many men… avalanche… trapped in… the high pass. Orcs caused a r-rockslide. Will w-w-wait for… dark…" The scout's eyes began rolling back into his head but he bit his own tongue at the last second to return from the brink. More blood dribbled over his lips as his fevered eyes desperately looked from the captain to Aragorn.

"They'll be slaughtered…" Aragorn spoke after a moment, finally realizing what the scout was trying to convey that was so important. Aragorn looked fearfully to the captain. "The orcs will attack from the safety of high ground as soon as the sun sets. Without cover our men won't stand a chance!"

The scout nodded in relief, signaling that he was correct in that assessment. The captain's eyes widened in realization and horror just as the scout succumbed at last. Aragorn, the captain, and the healer remained in stunned silence.

"I'm done with the entry point." Well, the captain and Aragorn were the ones stunned to silence. The healer might as well have been ignoring the entire conversation, so intently was he focusing on the task at hand. Aragorn shifted his position and the healer came around to take his place.

"When he awakens, find his name," the captain directed. "He should be commended."

Aragorn nodded absently, his mind still reeling from present revelations.

"How did you know he was a scout?" The captain then asked, bringing Aragorn's mind to attention.

"He wasn't brought in wearing the usual armor of a Rider of the Mark," Aragorn explained. "Only long-range scouts have the need to travel so lightly."

The captain nodded, accepting the validity of the deduction. "Very good, master healer… healers. Continue your fine work. I have urgent business now to attend to." With that the captain turned and quickly took his leave.

Aragorn then returned his attentions to the scout. He felt the man's forehead and winced at the heat of the fever. He checked his pulse—feint but fast, and his breathing—shallow and raspy. His lungs were gradually filling with fluid. Aragorn checked the man's eyes next, not to gauge their reaction to light but rather to test a hunch.

Then he silently cursed that his hunch was correct.

The blood vessels in the man's eyes were visible, but instead of red they were colored dark yellow: the telltale sign of a typical orcish poison. The remedy was a simple one: mix periola root with the oils from mustard seeds and boil the liquid down into a paste to be applied to the wound. Boil athelas in water to produce healing vapors to ease the lungs after the puncture wound and of the effects of the poison, and the patient should make a full recovery.

They had run out of athelas many hours ago.

Periola root wasn't even counted amongst the herbs.

"I have finished," the healer announced. Aragorn left his own musings to see that the scout's shoulder was fully bandaged. The man seemed to be in a troubled sleep, but at least he did not stir.

"Do we have something to ease his suffering?" Aragorn asked in a pained voice.

The healer seemed to give the matter serious thought. "Mint and lavender perhaps. If we wiped him down constantly with wet rags of that solution it should ease his sleep and sooth the fever until his lungs finally succumb."

Aragorn nodded gravely. "We should still have those in our supplies."

"Good. Shall I wake one of our apprentices?"

Aragorn's features darkened, his eyes turned to pools of quicksilver already betraying how the proverbial gears were turning.

"No," he directed. "I shall do that myself. Then I have a few things that I would like to discuss with our captain."

"Very well then," the healer agreed.

Aragorn nodded once, then turned and left the hospital tent with deliberate strides.

In the crushing silence that followed Aragorn's departure, the healer returned his attention to the patient. He felt the man's forehead and winced, just as Aragorn had.

"Rest easy now," he commanded to the unconscious scout. "You have done well this day. Hopefully someone will be found who knows your name, so that others may hear of it."

* * *

Aragorn marched over to the makeshift tent where the captain of the garrison had his office of sorts. He didn't bother to announce himself before entering but rather he threw back the tent flap and marched over to the rickety table that served as a desk. The captain stood in surprise when he entered, as did the soldier—probably the garrison lieutenant, with whom the captain was currently speaking.

Aragorn didn't have time for military protocol or formality. It was nearly noontide, and the winter sun sets early. After dark, countless lives would be lost.

"You need to send a party into the mountains," he told the soldiers before they had recovered their wits enough to ask him why he had just barged in.

"Excuse me?" The captain was slightly annoyed and slightly confused.

"You need to send a party into the mountains," he directed again. "Our men have only until sunset to live without aid."

"I am quite well aware of that, master healer," the captain assured him dismissively. "However, even if I were to completely _abandon_ my post, I don't have enough soldiers to at my command to make a difference on the mountain."

"You don't know that," Aragorn protested.

"I know that the battle is won and the orcs are fleeing, but that our men have become ensnared by the cruelty of the mountain. Now we have no choice but to wait and see if return to us."

Aragorn's eyes bugged. "You mean wait and see if the orcs have truly fled or if they'll remain just long enough to slaughter our people like sheep!"

"Mind your tongue!" The lieutenant snapped, breaking his silence. "The orcs have nowhere to go. Even if they do… kill our men on the mountain, Third Marshal Folca had his force divided. There is no where the orcs can escape to. The battle is won."

"You can't just sit back and do nothing!" Aragorn practically shouted.

"Do you think that I want to?" The captain shouted back. "But if I lead my men into the mountains it will only result in _more_ death. And there'll be no one left to guard the wounded and you non-combatant healers."

"But we can't just leave them there to die…" Aragorn argued, his righteous indignation faltering.

"We have no other alternative," the captain said, his eyes hard with resolve even though his voice was pained. "Now I suggest you go back to treating wounded soldiers," he added dismissively.

Aragorn's eyes narrowed but he thought better of being defiant. Instead, he turned on his heels and fled without another word.

* * *

"This is ludicrous!" Aragorn exclaimed, forcibly digging his hands through the driven snow, not noticing as his fingers went numb. He was searching for more herbs. Eolad was beside him, content to let him rant. "How can they do this? How can they be _content_ to let their comrades die!"

"It's not an easy situation," Eolad offered. "The captain doesn't want to see more good men dead."

Aragorn shuffled over a few feet to continue his search through the snow.

"Even the sons of Fëanor did not so lightly abandon their warriors to the enemy!" He bemoaned, sitting back on his heals and crunching snowballs in his hands.

Eolad blinked in confusion. Aragorn sighed tiredly, not caring that he was freezing, ranting, and behaving like a spoiled child. His eyes darkened again.

"Círdan left none behind in Beleriand. Celeborn stayed in Eregion at great peril until the last of his people could be evacuated. Even the damn overly pragmatic warriors of Thranduil's people aren't so heartless when it comes to their own kin! How… How beneath the blessed stars of Varda can the men of Rohan be so cold?" His anger seemed to flee as quickly as it came. He sagged into himself then, and bowed his head.

"What am I supposed to say to Lindewyn…"

"We men of the Mark have seen much death," Eolad said finally, his voice gentle. "I can assure you that those men in the mountain aren't waiting for a rescue. They merely await the dawn."

"But how has it come to pass that no one has any hope?" Aragorn sounded lost and very young as he searched his friend's face for answers.

"You have a gentle spirit, Thorongil," Eolad told him sadly. "I fear too gentle, perhaps, for a life of war. But that is why you became a healer, is it not?" He laughed then, though not unkindly. "You have lost much, I fear, in your mad dash from the north. That is the secret you will not reveal, the name of the burden you carry. My own family was shattered when I wasn't even old enough to shave, and I would bet the sun that you won't find a single man of the Mark that hasn't lost as much or more than I. Those men on the mountains have hope, Thorongil. It is the hope that when they next see the sun rise, everyone who they have lost will be rushing forth to greet them."

"You hope for death but not for victory?"

"We hope to survive this war well enough to face the next, and that when we fall, it is with honor. There is victory enough in that."

Aragorn snorted. "Death does not make heroes. Only life does that."

Eolad laughed again, softly and sad. "We have entered the twilight of our age. All of our heroes are dead."

"And by daybreak scores more will be joining them," Aragorn concluded sarcastically.

"The battle is a victory," Eolad reminded him. "The bravery of Folca and his men will be immortalized in song that all of the deceased will hear resonating in the halls of their fathers."

Aragorn's eyes darkened again, this time with determination. Eolad sensed a change in him and fixed his friend with a questioning look.

"No heroes will be made this night," he vowed, though Eolad wondered briefly to whom he was speaking before realization sunk in.

"Thorongil…?" His voice held equal parts question and warning.

"Folca will not find his honor on the mountain." Aragorn stood from the ground, and it seemed to Eolad that he stood taller than before. "Auta i lómë. Aurë entuluva." And Aragorn took off at a run back into the heart of camp.

Eolad stood transfixed, staring after him, at a loss to do much else.

* * *

Aragorn found his way back to the hospital tent. His personal belongings had been moved there when his cot in the barracks tent was commandeered for the wounded. Fortunately no one was in; the other healers were either tending to the wounded or occupying their time with some other distraction at the moment. Aragorn wasted no time in securing his sword to his belt and slinging his bow and quiver over his back. The necessary equipment gathered, Aragorn quickly fled the tent in search of his horse.

"I thought you might try something stupid."

Aragorn stopped in his tracks. There stood Eolad, holding the reins of Frelaf. Aragorn was frozen, caught in the act.

"Something in the way you sharpened that sword, Thorongil," Eolad continued. "I've known too many soldiers to not recognize the signs."

"What signs?" Aragorn was more confused than anything, though trying to feign innocence never hurts.

Eolad laughed. "That you're positively daft, for one thing! You warrior types are all alike. You think you can all save the world. My brother was just like that, before he died."

Aragorn took a few deep, calming breaths, collecting himself. "Unhand my horse," he directed.

Eolad leveled him with a chilling stare. "And let you ride off up the mountain alone to face a host of orcs on a fool's errand?" He asked incredulously.

"I have friends up there," Aragorn said, his voice quietly passionate as he tried to remain calm.

"As do I," Eolad replied. "But there is nothing I can do to save them. However, I _can_ do something about a friend down here who seems rather intent on committing suicide."

"You can save our friends by unhanding that horse," Aragorn told him evenly.

Eolad only laughed again. "So arrogant," he chided sadly, shaking his head. "And pray tell, what can one man do against an army?"

Aragorn's voice was deadpan as he replied: "What he must."

Eolad's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his friend. "I understand your helplessness," he said at length, trying a different tactic. "And better than you think. Do you believe it is easy for me, to sit behind the lines as a healer while all my childhood friends—my very kin—ride forth to battle? I know quite well what it is like to not be able to help those we care about; to bury friends instead of saving them. You aren't supposed to like it and the Black Land keep your soul if ever you get _used_ to it, but your death on the mountain would serve no purpose, Thorongil. How would your Lindewyn react when she hears that you perished needlessly alongside her brother?"

Aragorn bowed his head, ashamed to have been shamed by Eolad. But something stirred within him then, a thought formerly kept in shadow now at last given light. He looked up slowly, and when he did, he seemed to grow in height so that he was standing tall and proud, and regarding Eolad with hard, determined eyes; eyes that held _hope_.

"Do you have hope, Eolad? If yours will not be death glorified in battle, then what have you to hope for?"

Eolad's eyes were sad. "For my friends," he answered. "That they might live another day."

"Cling to that hope, Eolad. Feed it; don't mourn it. Let me try and save them."

Eolad met Aragorn's even gaze. They held that stare together for many moments, and during that time Aragorn laid bare his soul. Eolad saw the raw honesty of Aragorn's intentions, and the sincerest belief that he could actually _do it_. That he believed he could save those soldiers. It wasn't confidence. It wasn't arrogance. It was certainty; pure, emotionless, fact-based _certainty_. He found his hand releasing Frelaf's reins almost of their own accord.

"Who _are_ you?" He asked, breathless, as Aragorn approached him. Aragorn grabbed the reins in one hand and stroked Frelaf's neck with the other. The stallion nickered in seeming approval.

Aragorn's reply was simply stated, but it was the only lie thus far that Eolad was able to detect.

"My name is Thorongil."

Aragorn effortlessly swung up onto Frelaf's back, surprising Eolad again. Rohan's horses in the field are kept bridled for practicality's sake, but they are not saddled. However this Thorongil seemed not to mind if even he noticed. Instead he mounted straight away, and gathering the reins together he urged the stallion into an immediate gallop. Eolad watched as Aragorn found the tracks in the snow that led up the mountain where the wounded had returned to battle, his eyes bright with worry and maybe, just maybe, with hope.

Others also spotted Thorongil's quick departure from camp. Soon the captain came running over to where Eolad stood, for he followed the tracks of the horse back to their origins.

"What in the name of _Béma_ does he think he's doing?" The captain asked incredulously.

"I have no idea," Eolad confessed in honesty. "But I hope he succeeds."

* * *

Aragorn rode up the mountain as fast as it was safe for his horse to travel. All too soon, however, he reached the point where horses could no longer tread. Aragorn dismounted, his boots sinking into nearly a foot of snow. He inwardly groaned as he watched his breath mist before his eyes—these were horrible conditions for a battle. As he sent Frelaf away, however, he adamantly refused to waste time wishing that he was an elf. He was an adan ranger, who had fought in the mountains before. _That's_ what he had to work with and _that's_ how he would achieve victory.

Aragorn continued up the mountain on foot, following the tracks of the wounded soldiers. Every so often there would be traces of blood, from where stitches were pulled and wounds bled anew. Halfway towards his destination he began finding bodies, either those that couldn't make it down the mountain to aide, or those that succumbed to the cold and their battered bodies during the return trip. Aragorn knew from the color of their skin that they had bled to death, or perhaps frozen to death. He tried not to spare them a second thought as he continued on. He had a job to do.

Finally the steep ascent leveled off into a wide, gently downward-sloping plain. Aragorn's breath caught in his throat.

This was the field of battle.

The fallen bodies of orcs and men littered the ground. The snow had melted around them only to have fresh snow congregate in its place. They were mostly covered now, reddish-black lumps in the pristine white that leeched tendrils and splatters in pinwheel shapes around them.

"Elbereth…"

Aragorn didn't want to enter here. It felt wrong to do so, sacrilegious even. Like violating the graves of the dead. He, a living, breathing soul who did not fight here, did not belong here. He felt himself start to shiver from how long he stood there in the numbing cold, yet his feet stayed rooted to the spot. He had to go on though; no matter how dirty it made him feel.

Slowly, carefully, Aragorn picked his way across the plateau. His intent was to move as silently as possible, to disturb no less than an elf would if he were to make this crossing. Yet alas, Aragorn was edain. His feet fell heavily in the snow, kicking fallen swords and shields, stepping on spears and… squishier… things that Aragorn forced himself not to notice fore what they were.

Slowly, carefully, as the sun crept dangerously lower in the western sky, Aragorn wove his way around the bodies, deliberately ignoring shapes and faces lest he see someone he'd recognize. Now was not the time to mourn. He had a job to do.

After what seemed like a silent eternity, Aragorn found his way to where the plateau sloped steeply downwards and to the right until it stopped abruptly at what appeared to be a less-than-sturdy ledge. Aragorn picked his way carefully around to the left side of the sudden ledge, staying on the firmer ground by the cliff wall. He had a strong hunch that, at the bottom, he would find the remainder of Folca's army. In what condition, however…

Aragorn held his breath and slowly peered over the side of the cliff. Sure enough, the failing sunlight glinted off of what had to have easily been a hundred Rohan helms! No, more like two hundred! Aragorn could have leapt for joy as his heart danced happily against his ribcage. They were alive! A good portion of the army was still alive!

Aragorn quickly sobered himself. He had a job to do.

As though he were flipping through an old tome, Aragorn allowed his mind to drift back a few years to his training days, when Bowen, Glorfindel, and the twins had taken him into the Misty Mountains to learn how to be a ranger in the most inhospitable climes. He recalled what Bowen had said about how the edain must shift and place their weight, having to be more mindful than their Elven comrades. He remembered what Glorfindel had showed him, how each rock face and snow pack told a story, if one simply knew how to listen. He remembered the snowball fight he had with the twins, but that thought was quickly shoved away.

Aragorn studied the cliff and the snow drifts. He accounted for the latest snowfall and the current temperature. He took in all variables one by one, and in his head came up with a fairly accurate synopsis of what had happened. The fight had gradually been drawn over towards the ledge, which was a bit gentler than it is now. However, either by force of the weight of the combatants or by some fell craft of the orcs, the ledge broke away, no doubt crushing many unfortunate souls on the ground below. In this fashion, a large portion of Folca's army was cut off from the main battle. The orcs had greater numbers on the plateau than in the ravine and when the forces were sundered the men on the plateau had little chance. The men in the ravine, cut off from their compatriots as they were, still managed to finish off their share of the orcs but were powerless to escape their rocky prison and help the battle above. Now the men of the plateau were dead, and the men of the ravine had no course but to wait, either for a solution of escape to be devised or for the orcs to return under cover of darkness and finish them off.

Aragorn grit his teeth and steeled his resolve. He would ensure that the former would come to pass. Those soldiers would make it out alive!

Aragorn assessed the situation anew. He realized that there was no chance the soldiers could climb out of the ravine on this side without the aide of ropes, which he didn't have. However, the ravine sloped a bit more gently downward in the other direction, so it stands to reason that the other side would not be as steep. Of course, Aragorn realized that if there was an easy way out of the situation then the men down there would have already found it, but Aragorn pushed that thought out of his mind. Perhaps the situation looks different on the other side of the rocks?

Slowly and carefully—and ever-mindful of the retreating sun, Aragorn picked his way around the top of the ravine. Finally and much too slowly for his liking, Aragorn reached a high point where he could easily survey the entirety of the ravine. He counted two hundred and seventeen helms glittering below. From this substantial height he couldn't quite tell what they were doing down there. Most likely they were taking rest in the relative safety of the daylight hours. With some chagrin he doubted that they had posted a watch, for surely he would have been spotted if they had, standing as openly as he was. However, he decided at length against attracting their attention. He wanted to have good news to tell them, and as of right now he had none.

Aragorn nodded his head slowly, his agile mind breaking down the monumental task before him into smaller, simpler steps. Already he had verified what the scout had informed them. Already he knew that there were two hundred and seventeen good men trapped in this ravine, awaiting either some rescue of his design (which they did not know at the time) or the return of the orcs at sunset (which was the most likely).

Aragorn tore his gaze from the soldiers below, chastising himself for trying to pick out Folca's armor in the throng instead of focusing on the task at hand. His eyes swept over the walls of the ravine and came to rest on the far side, opposite from where he first surveyed. It appeared, at least from this vantage point, that the orcs had sealed the other entrance to the ravine as well, taking advantage of the warm spell and resulting loose pack ice to create an avalanche. The falling snow had ripped free many loose boulders and an effective dam had been created, keeping the soldiers from escaping. However, it was both the shortest wall _and_ the weakest. Aragorn knew that any hope of getting those men out alive rested within the structure of that wall, and so in that direction he picked the swiftest, surest path.

By the time Aragorn found his way to the other side of the ravine the sun was no longer visible in the mountain range. Long shadows fell out of the west, blanketing the rocky landscape in semi-darkness. Aragorn discovered in the failing sunlight that he was in fact correct in his assessment: this wall was the least sturdy and the most likely spot to try and mount a rescue.

Unfortunately, he was only one man, with barely half a turn of the hourglass left until the orcs would reappear.

Once (finally) on solid ground, Aragon surveyed the wall properly with a discerning eye. The boulders near the bottom were large and sturdy, and caked with mud and fallen snow. They got smaller and less sturdy the farther up one went, but Aragorn could find no footing there, nor leverage, if he was to try and knock the wall down. It might work, but the boulders and debris on top would fall and crush him instantly.

It was now that Aragorn, after having come all this way, so sure of himself and of his ability to save his friends, finally began to give in to despair at last. It would take a veritable _army_ to move those rocks, and he was but one man with time rapidly working against him. Sure if he had Vilya, or mayhap a few of Gandalf's fireworks… But no, he had a sword, a bow, a quiver of twenty-five arrows, and in a few minutes time, a _serious_ orc problem.

"Stupid, miserable, foolish adan," he lamented. "Eolad was right."

The shadows melted together into one.

Darkness overcame the pale wisps of light lingering in the ravine.

The first few stars of twilight began to peak through the firmament.

Aragorn stood at the base of the rock pile that separated him from his companions. The orcs would come, take positions from on high, and finish them off with a rain of poisoned arrows… or a rockslide… or a siege…

The temperature was already dropping.

The star of Eärendil began its trek across the sky, mocking almost in its promise of hope.

"All of our heroes are dead," Aragorn called out to that star, echoing Eolad's words but meaning something far different. Then he snorted. "Or they're about to be."

Aragorn stood alone, at the base of a wall of rocks and debris, feeling incredibly small and insignificant; one singular adan in the middle of the wilderness, after dark, having his momentary delusions of grandeur crushed by the agonizing weight of the rocks behind him. He could not move them. No mortal could. Oh how foolish he felt for daring to believe that he could make a difference in this war!

He slammed his palm into a rock in agonized defeat. It didn't budge; it's still silence taunted him.

The Rohan army—his friends!—were trapped on the other side of this divide. He could not help them. After protesting so fiercely to the captain, who had been _right_ to not want to lose more lives upon the mountain! And convincing Eolad to believe in hope, who had been _right_ in his fatalism concerning death, heroics, and war. After making this journey up the mountain, alone and probably reprimanded in his absence for abandoning his post at the hospital and laughed at or bemoaned for his gross stupidity when he wasn't there to defend his choice of action. After finding the courage to _hope_ once more, and the will to act on that hope. After _all of it_…

All of them were right.

At every step, every decision, he had ignored wisdom and went with his own foolhardy ideas. Had this been the Misty Mountains, and it was a host of elves or rangers that was trapped in a ravine by orcs, he would have fashioned something to save the day. Legolas would have arrived with a contingent of Mirkwood soldiers, or Glorfindel would have come with a host from Imladris at the last second to defeat the orcs. Or his ada would have used Vilya to save the trapped soldiers, or Gandalf would have launched fireworks at the rocks and crumbled the weakest wall. _Something_ would have happened to remind him that he was Estel, the hope of men and elves, for wherever he went, hope was sure to follow, even in the darkest of times and at the precipice of certain doom, there was always cause for _hope_.

This was a ravine in the White Mountains. Those were soldiers of Rohan. Mirkwood and Imladris are leagues upon leagues away. Gandalf and his fireworks are just impossible to reach as Lord Elrond and his ring of power.

And Estel is dead. He died when Strider turned off from the Redhorn Pass and journeyed on to Rohan.

Thorongil of Strathcomb stood beside the rock face—the monument to his shortsightedness and failure, and wept for the realization that he was powerless to help his friends, just as he was powerless to save Bretta's life, or the life of that scout, or the countless others that died on his table because he had not the skills needed to aid them. So many dead whom he could claim responsibility for, and now two hundred and seventeen more would be added to that list as the sky truly darkened and night set in. Oh whatever was he thinking, coming up here alone?

Then, as night took hold and pitying despair shrouded his soul like a cloak, the sickening moment came when he realized the two-way street: the army also could not help _him_.

Crashing and clanking sounds in the distance now. The orcs were coming. It was now that the severity of Aragorn's folly inevitably made itself clear, and all too late.

The orcs were coming, and Aragorn stood alone.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Adan/edain_: human/humans or human race

_Hiro hyn hîdh ab 'wanath_: (Sindarin) May they find peace after death.

_Auta i lómë. Aurë entuluva_: (Quenya) The night is passing. Day shall come again.

_Béma_: The name in Rohan for the Vala Oromé, huntsman and horseman of the Valar. The people of Rohan claimed that that their great horses the mearas had ancestors brought out of the West by the Vala himself.

_Vilya_: Elrond's ring of power, greatest of the 3 given to the elves, controls the air.

**Notes on canonical vs. _fan_onical conventions:**

-_On Aragorn's ramblings_: When Aragorn says that Círdan left none behind in Beleriand, he is referring to how that section of land sank at the end of the War of Wrath. Círdan had ships enough for all, and when Beleriand was being broken asunder he made sure that every elf and edain ally still there had a means of escape. Also, when he says that Celeborn stayed in Eregion, he is referring to the great evacuation of Ost-in-Edhil, where he and Galadriel ruled during the second age until Sauron spoiled things. The survivors of that city were evacuated, and the refugees eventually met up with Elrond's host out of Lindon. This is the group that first settled Rivendell. Aragorn was referring to how Celeborn remained behind in Eregion long enough to oversee the evacuation of the refugees. He also makes the claim that even the sons of Fëanor weren't so heartless in regards to their own troops, and to be referred to as worse than the sons of Fëanor (as Aragorn claims the men of Rohan are behaving) is a heavy statement indeed.


	10. Ch 6c: Thorongil's first war, part 3

The sun had fully set. Darkness blanketed the land, punctured only by a few sparse stars and a tiny sliver moon as Isil continues to wane into blackness again, much like the hope of Middle Earth.

Aragorn stood before the rock face, gazing up at the stars without seeing them. His ears were paying attention to the sounds of the night. A host of orcs was marching on his position, no doubt to finish what they started with the men in the ravine. Their armor clanked loudly, and their feet seemed to make a low groaning noise as they marched—something that Aragorn had never heard before from orcs.

Of course, these were orcs of Mordor, and he's never seen one of _them_ either.

So this was to be his fate? To die at the hands of orcs like so many of his forefathers? He would die alone in the shadow of the mountains, hopelessly outnumbered and far from any source of aid. In the lingering dark, as his breath fogged before his eyes, Aragorn nodded to himself (or perhaps to the Valar?) that he understood and accepted his fate. So the line of Kings was to perish here, blinking into the obscurity that the rest of the world believed had claimed it long ago.

So be it.

It may have been his destiny to overthrow this shadow and lead the free peoples of Middle Earth to victory, but destiny, it seems, has not the strength to bind the hands of fate. Aragorn knew this, and accepted it anew. He would die early in the great battle of this age. The fact that his loved ones will escape this growing darkness by sailing into the Undying Lands provided some comfort in what Aragorn perceived to be his final hour.

"Im dénië, Adar. Im únolë lle iareva aiye nin. Im úlleva estel."

The sounds grew louder. The orcs were moving closer. Less than a minute and Aragorn would be out of time.

He looked to the heavens again. Gil-Estel, the star of his forefather Eärendil, seemed to burn brighter tonight than any other night Aragorn could remember. It served to galvanize him, but it did not bring him hope.

Aragorn loosened his sword at his belt and looked back to the rocks behind him. He would need to find cover from which he can let his arrows fly. Hopefully he can take out a few orcs before they came upon him. Then it would be up to his skill with the blade, but not even the greatest warriors of Arda such as Glorfindel or Celeborn would be able to fend off an entire host unaided.

Aragorn knew his situation was hopeless. That didn't mean that he intended to forfeit his life without a fight.

Aragorn's eyes were hard, his features set in grim determination as he found a suitable rock mid-way up the left side of the dam that he could use for cover. He would die this night, but as he notched an arrow on his bowstring he vowed that he would not die easily.

The crashing, rumbling, and clanking grew steadily louder. Aragorn felt his palms begin to sweat even as he held his bow notched and ready.

"I am a ranger," he stated quietly, reciting. "I fear not the darkness. I pledge my life to the service of Middle Earth." The sounds grew louder still. A few shrill chirps and whistles could be heard above the din. The very ground seemed to quake beneath the weight of the advancing orcs.

"I am a ranger. I fear not the darkness. I pledge my life to the service of Middle Earth." The first orcs came into view.

"I am a ranger." Aragorn aimed his bow.

"I fear not the darkness." His arrow flew and embedded itself in the throat of an approaching orc. Its companions howled and screamed.

"I pledge my life to the service of Middle Earth." His next arrow caught another orc high in the chest, felling him. The orcs were now shouting at each other, and Aragorn found the sounds of their voices—deeper and throatier than that of goblins, physically painful to endure. That's when he realized that they weren't speaking in a lesser Orcish tongue but were using the dread Black Speech of Mordor.

"I am a ranger!" He shouted, clinging to the words of the oath he swore the day he joined the Dúnedain not only to keep his nerves at bay but now also to drown out the sounds of that speech as another Dúnedain arrow found its way into the cheek of an orc.

"I fear not the darkness!"

The orcs had reached the base of the dam by now. They seemed to be trying to climb up to his location. He aimed another arrow and fired into their midst, shouting:

"I pledge my life to the service of Middle Earth!"

Aragorn kept up his recitation as he fired arrow after arrow into the pack of orcs at the base of the dam. Their grunts and clattering were punctuated by the high-pitched shrieks as more and more orcs fell to Aragorn's arrows, which were usually followed by horrific instances of shouted Black Speech.

Unfortunately, firing nearly straight down on the pack of orcs meant that more often than not his arrows glanced off of helms instead of piercing them. Not all of his shots counted, and his supply of arrows was rapidly dwindling.

The orcs were climbing in greater numbers than he could shoot them down, and now with greater speed as they were scaling the growing mound of their own fallen.

When Aragorn's arrows ran out he reflexively stole a glance around to see if he could spot any orcish arrows to send back to their owners. That's when he realized that he orcs weren't shooting at him. They must have spent all their arrows in the previous fight.

_Thank the Valar for small miracles!_

Aragorn then braced himself behind his cover stone. From its precarious perch upon the dam, Aragorn hoped that with the proper leverage he would be able to knock it loose and send it crashing down upon the orcs that were almost upon him.

The orcs were shouting again, louder. Aragorn was so close to the orcs barking out orders that he could have been able to repeat some of the phrases phonetically if he concentrated on it.

He of course forewent that idea in favor of bracing his back against the rock face behind him and pressing all of his strength through his legs into the boulder, hoping to send it tumbling. He grunted and strained and saw an orcish hand finally reach up to grab a handhold on his perch—

_CRAAAAAAASH!_

The boulder came loose and took the orc down like a bowling pin. The thundering descent of the boulder as it rolled down the slope of fallen orcs sent those of their companions that it didn't kill scrambling out of the way.

If anything, it bought Aragorn more time.

At this point, he would take what he could get.

Aragorn stood and drew his sword, making ready to defend his high perch from the regrouping orc horde below. He noticed that his surroundings were brighter now, thanks to the orcs dropping lit torches everywhere.

_THWACK!_

Aragorn suddenly stumbled backwards, awkwardly. He looked down and saw a black arrow protruding from his left shoulder. The orcs still had arrows, all right. They were just waiting for a clean shot.

More arrows zinged by him, impacting on the rocks around him. Now his high perch wasn't as safe as he originally thought it to be.

_Well, perhaps if I didn't voluntarily give up my cover…_

Aragorn violently snapped off the shaft of the arrow—howling in pain as he did so, while he scrambled down the steep slope of the right side of the damn. Arrows bounced off the rocks around him as he dove for cover behind a slightly smaller rock quite a bit closer to the foot of the dam. From here he inspected his wound, noting that he had managed to break the shaft to leave very little left protruding from his flesh. He felt the back of his shoulder too, and didn't feel any part of the arrow head poking through. That meant the entirety of the head was still inside his shoulder.

Aragorn tightened his grip on his sword in his right hand. There was nothing he could do about that now. If he fought with only his right arm during this battle then perhaps he would spare himself permanent injury and disability from having the arrowhead constantly scraping against his scapula.

As more arrows missed Aragorn by inches, he suddenly devised a new strategy. He reached quickly out from behind cover and grabbed a few orcish arrows. He grinned when his suspicions were confirmed: they were much heavier than edain or Elvin arrows, thicker shafts with larger heads, engineered for maximum damage.

Aragorn shifted to his knees and leaned out over the top of the rock.

_PHWISH!_

He threw an arrow like a dagger straight down at the nearest orc, striking its hand and causing it to yelp and stumble in its climb, taking a few companions with it. He repeated the process for each arrow he found.

_PH-PH-PWISH! PHWISH! PHWISH!_

More orcs were hit, in the face, hands, exposed throats, wherever Aragorn saw flesh instead of metal armor. Enraged that one measly human was so hard to kill even though he seemed to be having no trouble with killing _them_,the orcs shrieked and cried and fired more arrows. Aragorn felt the fletching of one close call part his hair in an interesting place.

The ones Aragorn could reach without too much exposure he sent flying back. Finally they either ran out of arrows (for real this time), or they decided that it was in their best interests not to give the human any more ammunition.

Either way, the arrows stopped coming. Aragorn sat back, knowing that he shouldn't feel relieved that he had managed to survive this long but unable to help it. He began to notice how cold his left shoulder was starting to feel.

Aragorn knew that the orcs were climbing to his position again, and this time they didn't have nearly as far to go. That didn't matter to him though. He didn't have nearly as hard to push in order to send his cover boulder crashing down upon them again. He braced his back against the wall behind him and pushed off against the boulder with his legs.

_CREE—EE—ASHHH!_

Fewer Orcs were flattened and scattered by the descending boulder this time, for it was smaller than the last and they had been expecting the tactic. That didn't matter though. It had bought him more time.

Mercifully, no arrows flew at the now uncovered ranger. Instead, snarling, barking, biting, enraged orcs renewed their climb up the latter of bodies to reach his position.

As the orcs threatened to reach his perch, Aragorn gripped his sword hilt in both hands. Forget permanent damage, he was more concerned with killing as many orcs as possible before succumbing to the poison on the arrowhead.

Aragorn's face was grim as he surveyed the orcs. Thankfully they were poor climbers, but even still, they were almost within range of his sword. Those on the ground were hollering and chanting one word over and over again in that dreaded speech of theirs. Aragorn tried to block it out of his mind, silently mouthing his oath again.

Suddenly a loud groaning rumble broke through the din of battle. Aragorn looked up sharply at the source of the noise and his eyes widened in surprise.

Suddenly he became very much aware of what _gharksh_ meant in Black Speech.

_The orcs have a ballista?_

Aragorn couldn't help but be caught staring as a what looked like a battering ram three paces long with a sharpened tip was loaded onto an overgrown slingshot with delusions of grandeur. The projectile was drawn back like a crossbow bolt as two orcs pivoted the head of the siege weapon, sluggishly taking aim…

_The orcs have a ballista!_

Reality suddenly set in and surprise turned into alarm. Aragorn dove out of the way just in time as the projectile was launched at the spot he was just standing in. The impact caused a mini-rockslide as the pointed tip of the projectile parted lesser stones and embedded itself in the crumbling mosaic of the dam.

"Elbereth…"

Aragorn scrambled to his feet, belatedly remembering to pick up his sword. As the last of the rockslide found its way to the bottom of the dam Aragorn's face broke out in a large grin.

_THE ORCS HAVE A BALLISTA!_

Suddenly his hopeless situation didn't seem so hopeless anymore. He had found away to free the soldiers trapped inside the ravine! All he had to do was get the orcs to fire on him a few more times and the entire dam would give way, allowing Folca and his men the chance to escape and join the battle. With any luck, the army behind the dam would be capable of overrunning the orcs.

As the orcs shouted more commands in their speech and Aragorn noticed that the climbers backed off in favor of letting the ballista finish of the stubborn human the grin faded back into determination once more. He would be in the dead center of the rockslide he intended to cause.

_If it works… better to die a hero than a fool._

Another projectile was loaded onto the ballista. Aragorn stood defiantly, sword in hand, while the orcs hastily took aim.

"Valar ve astaldor…"

**_PHWOOOOOSH!_**

The projectile sang through the air straight at Aragorn. He dove to the opposite side this time, back towards the landing spot of the first projectile.

_SMACK!_

Unlike the first projectile though, this one bounced off the rock face. The boulder that it hit was knocked in nearly half a foot by the force of the impact, and the rocks balanced above it teetered nervously.

Aragorn smiled when he felt the ground beneath his feet shift as he stood up. The two projectiles had hit in parallel spots with about eight feet between them. As he quickly surveyed the dam structure again while the orcs loaded yet another projectile onto the ballista Aragorn hoped that one more well-placed blast should send the dam collapsing in on itself. Hopefully the soldiers on the other side heard the sounds of battle and are making to rush through the opening that's about to be created.

Aragorn deemed the perfect spot for the next projectile as being a brief tier below the ledge he was currently standing on. He slid down the four feet to the next ledge, which was barely large enough for him to stand on. Once there, Aragorn steadied himself with his now mostly useless left arm as he waved his sword defiantly in his right.

"Is that the best you can do?" He called out to them in the Common Tongue. "How is it that an entire host of orcs cannot kill one singular adan?"

The orcs screeched and cried at the taunt, even more so for the use of Elven at the end. Aragorn mock-saluted him with his sword as the orcs manning the ballista cranked back the spring to launch the projectile though all the while his eyes were glued to the release lever…

An orc's hand reached for the lever.

Aragorn watched.

The orc had the lever in hand.

Aragorn watched.

When the orc grunted in effort to pull back the lever, Aragorn stopped watching. He jumped out to the left as high and as far as he could just ahead of—

**_PHWOOOOOSH!_**

The projectile embedded itself amongst the smaller but tightly packed stones right behind the spot where Aragorn's head had been.

Aragorn sailed through the air, gaining considerable distance before he felt his feet reconnect with the ground. His knees immediately gave way and he tucked into a roll. Aragorn somersaulted forward awkwardly several times before friction overpowered inertia and he came to a skidding stop on his back. He then immediately curled into a tight little ball and covered his head with his arms as best he could.

The orcs quickly grabbed their scimitars, ready to finish off the bothersome human now that he was down. One of them began to bark an order in their evil tongue when—

_RUMBLE!_

The orcs looked back to the dam in surprise and confusion.

_RUMBLE—RUMBLE CREEEEEK—GROAN **CRAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!**_

It happened in less than a heartbeat.

The dam could no longer support its own weight. The entire structure collapsed down on itself, starting around the lowest projectile and spreading outwards and upwards like a shock wave. The unstable rocks shifted and tumbled out, bowling down the lower rock face and threatening to crush the orcs in their wake. The rocks above the fault line lost their basis of support and came crashing down upon the rocks below, jarring them and careening down towards the orcs after their predecessors. The bottommost rocks shifted and split from the repetitious impact and separated from the nearly hermetic seal they had created.

When the dust settled, Aragorn found himself miraculously unscathed by the landslide he had engineered. He uncurled slowly; stiff, sore, and dusty from the event. He had innumerable cuts and abrasions from his mad tumble down the cliff side, and he was pretty sure he twisted an ankle. He was unsure if the nausea and fogginess was caused by the poison or a blow to the head, but he really didn't have time to ponder that.The orcs, having scattered rather quickly to evade the landslide, were now regrouping, picking up discarded weapons, snarling things in their cursed tongue, and advancing on his position.

Aragorn rolled himself onto his hands and knees, allowing his right hand to close around the hilt of his sword, which he somehow managed to both keep with him and protect from breaking. He panted heavily, sweating from exertion and fever, and forced himself to look up into the mass of approaching orcs.

They were almost upon him.

Aragorn rocked back into a kneeling position and gripped his sword in both hands.

The lead orc came within sword range, scimitar held high in preparation for the killing blow—

_CLANG!_

Aragorn managed to raise his sword just in time to avoid decapitation. The orc pressed his weight into the follow-through though, and Aragorn was shoved back, their blades grating against each other. This orc was tall—at least man-high, broad shouldered, and held incredible posture for standing upright. He was nothing like his smaller, ganglier, and awkward-gaited cousins in the north that Aragorn was familiar with. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aragorn now knew what Elrond had meant when he told his adoptive son that despite his prowess at killing goblins, Aragorn had never faced a _real_ orc.

Right now, as the orc's beady yellow eyes were boring into his, as he felt the acrid breath in his face and smelt the putrescence and decay that lingers in Mordor Aragorn couldn't help but wish that fact was still true.

_THWACK!_

Aragorn's eyes widened in surprise as the first 'real' orc to cross blades with him was struck in the eye by a red-fletched arrow.

_An archer of Rohan!_

Aragorn found the strength to push the dead orc off of him and stand up. He wobbled slightly on unsteady legs, grinning like an idiot as he saw many more orcs meet the same fate as their companion. He looked over to the crumbled dam and saw at least twenty men standing on various rocks and high perches firing the last of their arrows into the horde of orcs that had tried to advance upon Aragorn.

Time seemed to slow for Aragorn, who suddenly found himself sanding aloof in the very center of a battle. Folca's men came rushing out of the ravine to join the fight; those with arrows left took positions and fired while those without drew their swords and twirled their spears, mowing down the orcs that the archers missed.

Time resumed with a loud, jarring clash of blades.

"So help me, Thorongil, you had better live long enough to explain how in fires of Mordor you managed this!"

Aragorn turned around to see Arlath standing behind him. The lieutenant had just blocked a scimitar swing meant to skewer Aragorn through the back, and the dazed ranger hadn't even known he—or the orc, was there.

Aragorn blinked through the fog.

_Arlath was ALIVE!_

He flashed a wicked grin and raised his sword, finally ready to rejoin the fray. Arlath simply shook his head as he watched Thorongil throw himself in front of a charging orc and separate its head from its shoulders before it knew what hit him.

Aragorn stepped back as viscous black blood sprung from the neck of the creature, and having instinctively sensed another orc coming up behind him he swung his sword in an overexerted, sweeping arc. He managed to slash the orc across the midsection, cutting through armor and flesh alike with his Elven blade. What he could only assume to be orcish entrails spilled out as the orc fell back. Aragorn grunted in pain and annoyance that his twisted ankle had caused such an ungraceful maneuver on his part.

Another orc found him though, and brought a scimitar slashing towards his right side. Aragorn skirted left and parried the blow before taking the hilt of his sword in both hands and shoving violently upwards and to the left. He managed to unbalance the orc just enough to give him the opportunity to run his sword through the creature's chest. The orc gurgled slightly when Aragorn removed his blade.

In his increasingly blurry peripheral vision Aragorn became aware that there were more men than orcs still standing and fighting now. He had lost track of Arlath and had yet to see Folca, but he hoped they were fairing well.

Another orc came at him from the left. Aragorn sidestepped easily and the orc's momentum carried him past. Aragorn then drove his sword through the orc's back all the way to the hilt. He removed it forcibly, disliking how slippery the black Orcish blood made his grip. It was thicker than goblin blood. Stickier too, but slimy. He doubted the stains would come clean from his sword and thought with chagrin on how many times he would need to wash his hands.

Ai Elbereth he was tired!

Aragorn noticed as the world tipped slowly from left to right, as though he was trying to fight on the deck of a ship in rough seas. Not only that, but he was having a difficult time staying focused.

The poison from the forgotten arrow wound was slowly claiming him.

Another orc came charging. Aragorn lazily brought his sword up to block. The orc gave a shove, and Aragorn was sent tumbling. He landed on his back and the impact winded him (or was that the poison?). The orc raised the scimitar for the death blow when suddenly—

_TH—TH—THWACK!_

Three red-fletched arrows hit its chest. The orc stumbled backwards a bit from the impact before its knees buckled and it toppled forwards, landing sprawled across Aragorn's legs.

Aragorn couldn't help the moan of pain and exhaustion that escaped his lips as he tried to shove the orc off of him. The effort proved too much, however. Effectively trapped, Aragorn's mind lost the will to control his body. His vision swam and his muscles relaxed, ending his reclining position and sending his lead crashing back to the rocky ground. The crack of his head striking a rock resounded rather loudly in his ears in the split second before his mind let go at last and sent him plummeting into the welcomed arms of oblivion.

* * *

He was warm. That was the first thing he noticed, since it was a welcomed change from the bitter cold he could have sworn he was feeling earlier.

The second thing he noticed was the softness. _Since when is the ground soft?_ No… not the ground then. The ground was hard, rocky, uncomfortable. This was… soft. It couldn't be the ground.

_Where am I?_

Confused, Aragorn tried shifting his weight. He felt the softness give slightly for his efforts, and somewhere the dark recesses of his mind were smiling.

_A bed then. I must be in a bed._

He heard voices next. Several of them. They were voices he recognized, though he couldn't quite place from where. However, since he couldn't make out what they were saying, the point was rather moot.

Aragorn shifted again involuntarily as his mind tried to make sense of it all. He felt a dull ache in his right ankle, but since he was almost positive he was able to wiggle a toe—the great pain it caused notwithstanding, he counted that as a good thing.

His left leg felt fine, an even greater thing.

He tried wiggling his fingers next and was certain that he had succeeded there, too. The oddly familiar voices seemed to get louder for a moment, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why; just like how for the life of him he couldn't figure out why his left hand felt so… odd.

Aragorn stilled his movements then and calmed himself a bit—not that he was agitated in the first place. He stretched out with a warrior's spatial sense and somehow knew that no other body parts were gravely injured.

Why did he suddenly get the _strangest_ sense of irony?

Satisfied that he was more or less in one piece, Aragorn decided to focus on the mystery of where he was and who those familiar voices belonged to. He wanted to ask them to speak Elvish—either language would do, or perhaps Westron, Adunaic, Khuzdul—_anything_ he was familiar with. Even the native tongue of Rohan, which he was just starting to learn, would have been better than whatever gibberish the sources of those disembodied voices were using.

Unfortunately he wasn't quite able to form the question on his tongue. His inquiry came out as a disjointed series of moans.

As though they were mocking him, the gibberish voices grew louder and more animated.

Aragorn tensed, rather irritated, and shifted again in trying to sit up. If he could only _see_ those evil little—

_Ah ha! _

That was the missing link. Aragorn had never bothered to open his eyes.

Slowly his eyelids fluttered open. He blinked half-lidded several times as bright lights stabbed into his eyes like daggers. He squinted and blinked and finally his eyes adjusted to the light. Blurry images began to take shape and slowly, slowly, _slowly_ solidify.

Finally Aragorn found himself staring up into the concerned face of someone he recognized.

"Eoh… lad," he slurred, smiling slightly at the fact that he had recognized his friend _and_ remembered his name.

The apprentice healer smiled brightly, relief shining in his eyes.

"Awake at last, I see," he said softly yet cheerfully. Aragorn marveled at how the simple act of opening his eyes seemed to simultaneously unscramble his hearing. "You gave us quite a fright, you know."

"… Us?" Aragorn managed to mumble. That's when his peripheral vision finally faded back in. Aragorn picked out Folca and Arlath standing amongst the other healers from the base camp and he smiled in relief and gratitude.

_Well, that answers the 'where' question._

"Thorongil, I thought I told you that you weren't allowed to die until you explained to me how you pulled off that brilliantly hair-brained stunt." Arlath stepped forward, false anger and tongue-and-cheek demeanor making Aragorn chuckle once, breathily. "You very nearly disobeyed an order, and didn't even have the good graces to stick around to face your punishment!"

The others laughed. Aragorn merely smirked.

"Lord Folca s-said… th-that I di-n't… have to take… orders… from any… one… except the… master… h-healer."

"Would you believe it?" Folca spoke up, false incredulousness to match Arlath's false anger. "As he lies recovering in sickbed he _still_ has the presence of mind to give me a title!"

Aragorn tried to smirk, but unconsciousness was stretching forth its tendrils again, threatening to drag him back into peaceful oblivion.

"S-saw-sorr… eee," Aragorn slurred. "Know you w-w-wan…ted me to… wo… uh…work… on th-tha-aa…t."

"Sleep now, Thorongil," Eolad directed, even though Aragorn had beaten him to the punch. "Sleep, my friend," he repeated as he tucked the blankets closer in around Aragorn. "You have earned it."

* * *

The next time Aragorn awoke he was of much sounder mind. When his eyes fluttered open the pain was only minimal this time, however he did notice from the position of his head on the pillow that he had a lovely goose egg on the back of his head that started to ache the minute he discovered it. He groaned in frustration at that, and his stirring alerted the healer nearly napping in a chair by his bedside that he was in fact awake.

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn turned his head slightly and saw Eolad, who appeared very pleased to see him awake again.

"Eolad." His voice was surer this time, no longer slurring.

"How do you feel this morning?"

"That depends. How long have I been out?"

Eolad frowned slightly, thinking back. "You were unconscious when Folca carried you in here. You stirred some but didn't wake when we had to tend to your injuries without anesthetic." A shadow passed over Eolad's face for a moment, clearly still affected by the memory of Aragorn's weak struggles and pathetic cries while he and the master healer worked to save his life.

"After your hurts were looked to, the poison in your veins kept you delirious with fever. You thrashed about and called out in your sleep such that we thought we might have to restrain you, and this kept up at intervals for three long nights. Then it seemed as though your body was finally able to overcome the poison and you found your rest at last. You slept for another day and a half after that, before the first time you awakened with actual coherency. That was yesterday afternoon."

Aragorn merely lay on his cot, absorbing the information slowly with a healer's eye for detail. He remembered now the arrow wound he sustained at the beginning of the fight.

"In that case, Eolad, I feel exhausted."

The apprentice healer couldn't help but laugh in response to that.

"I know of the arrow wound," Aragorn continued when the laughter subsided. "And I'm pretty sure I twisted my right ankle, as well as taking a blow to the back of the head. Did I miss anything else that my body has endured?"

"Well your ankle may have been twisted at first, but in the course of the battle you injured it further. You have a lovely sprain, Thorongil, and we have immobilized your lower leg and foot to provide support. Also, that blow to the head you took didn't cause any concussion that we could find, even though it broke the skin and bled considerably. Your eyes react as they should, however, and the bleeding was easy to control. Do not concern yourself with it."

Aragorn nodded, accepting this. Then he looked straight into Eolad's eyes with such intensity that the apprentice nearly turned away.

"And my shoulder?"

Eolad sighed and gazed at the floor.

"The arrowhead embedded itself in your shoulder blade. However, throughout the course of your actions, you managed to dislodge it. The arrowhead was not stationary, and scraped against your scapula and caused considerable muscle and tissue damage. We were afraid that your nerves had been damaged as well, but you are able to wiggle your fingers and this was a welcomed sight for us." Eolad paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "We do not know for certain if it caused any permanent damage. Only you can tell that, as you try to use your shoulder and arm. The master healer would not be surprised if you didn't regain full use of the limb, especially since we do not know the extent of the damage the poison caused while the arrow was in there."

Aragorn sat still for many moments, processing what was said and digesting the facts. Then slowly he brought his left arm up and bent his elbow to bring his hand before his face. The movements were sluggish and the strain on his shoulder pained him. He was determined, however. His facial expression alone showed this. Aragorn was not a man to take defeat lightly!

Slowly he brought each finger in to touch his thumb. His digits obeyed him, but it felt as though they were someone else's he was commanding to move. His fingertips tingled dully and that was the only sensation he registered. When he tried to clench his fist, he discovered that he couldn't make it close all the way, as though he was squeezing down on an invisible stone held in his palm. He tried several times, each earning the same results. Finally relaxed his arm back down to the bed, sighing tiredly from the effort.

Eolad had watched the entire thing with hopeful anticipation.

"Do not despair, Thorongil," he directed. "Already you have much greater range of motion than the master healer feared. I am told that you know much of physical therapy. Perhaps in time, with the right amount of the correct exercises…

"You need not cheer me," Aragorn said dully. "I have fared worse."

Once again Eolad's features darkened.

"From the scars we saw upon your body I do not doubt it," he said gravely. Then he seemed to banish his dark thoughts with a forcefully cheerful expression. "But enough chatter from me! You should be resting, and already I have exhausted you. Rest now, Thorongil. Tomorrow we pack up the tents and begin our journey home."

"Wait," Aragorn directed, even as he felt himself drifting to sleep. His inspection of his arm had completely sapped his strength. "Tell me of the battle," he directed, fighting off unconsciousness for as long as he could.

"Worry not about the battle, Thorongil," Eolad answered. "You only need know that we have won, and no living men are being left behind tomorrow." Aragorn relaxed fully at that, sighing in relief.

"Thanks be to the Valar…" His voice trailed off at the end as he fell asleep at last. Eolad smiled down at him almost fraternally before tucking the covers in once more and returning to his other duties as a healer.

* * *

The next morning Aragorn awoke when a few soldiers came in to help the healers disassemble the tent and pack everything away. Feeling a bit better, Aragorn forced himself up onto his elbows and surveyed the scene. It appeared as thought they were going to deconstruct the tent out from over him.

"Are you planning on just leaving me here?" He called out, amused. Several of the soldiers turned from their tasks at the sound of his voice but were quickly redirected by their taskmasters.

"Perish the thought."

Aragorn's head snapped around at the sound of Folca's voice. The sudden movement made the lump on the back of his head smart a little, but it didn't make him dizzy or nauseous, he noted with relief.

"You're looking a bit better than the last time I saw you."

"I feel better."

"So the healers have told me." Folca's eyes held something, the something that his tongue held back, as he stood in the far corner of the tent and watched Aragorn reline on his cot.

"When do we break camp?" Aragorn asked, growing uncomfortable in the silence that had crept in.

"Much of the camp has already broken," Folca answered. "More than half of the men have left already, in the company of half the healers. The seriously wounded have already been moved out."

"What of the satellite companies?"

"Their captains have reported that no orcs have escaped their notice. Scouts are still afoot in the mountains, but we believe that the entire infestation has been eradicated."

"Do we know why the orcs were roosting in the mountains to begin with?" "Some of the satellite captains reported what appeared to be quarry activity in some of the smaller orc camps they destroyed."

Aragorn blinked. "Cutting stones for siege equipment?"

Folca nodded. "That was our guess as well. Not to worry though, our soldiers have eliminated the orcs and destroyed their quarries. I have sent word ahead to King Thengal advising him to assign a watch garrison to the foothills of the mountains, just in case they decide to return."

Aragorn nodded that he understood, but still he was confused by something. "Why would orcs come all the way out here to cut their stone when Mordor itself is encircled by mountains?"

Folca shrugged half-heartedly. "Your guess is as good as mine, friend Thorongil. Perhaps the volcanic rock of Mordor is not ideal for catapulting?"

Aragorn pursed his lips in thought. "Perhaps…"

Folca dismissed the seriousness of the conversation with a bright and cheerful laugh. "Think no more of it," he directed. "The battle is won, the orcs are destroyed and their operations have been shut down; and thanks to you, nearly two hundred riders of the Mark that might have perished otherwise will be going home! You must rest for these final minutes while you can, because as soon as Eolad returns from fashioning a crutch for you, I shall help you hobble over to your horse and you shall depart with the next wave of returnees. Arlath will command it, and the rest of the healers and the walking wounded will be escorted home under ample guard."

Aragorn couldn't help but smile wide at the prospect.

"Will I make for Edoras or Strathcomb?"

Folca laughed again. Thorongil's greenness was oddly refreshing.

"The entire company makes for Edoras," he explained. "The wounded are tended there in the Wards of Healing. Reports must be made of the battle, the names of the dead, wounded, and missing must be counted and formal letters must be written to their kin. Promotions are handed out as earned or at need to replace those that have been lost and on very rare occasion, medals are awarded, too."

"It all sounds so involved…" Aragorn was slightly awed. Let no man claim the people of Rohan are primitive horse farmers!

Folca barked another laugh. "You have no idea until you find yourself as one in charge of the paperwork!" He explained with dejected amusement.

Aragorn snickered. "I believe you." Then he frowned. "What of you?"

Folca sighed tiredly. "I've assigned a small detachment to stay with me. We are going to finish breaking camp: scatter the ashes of the dead and make sure that no hard traces of our presence are left behind. I also need to take council with my scouts and satellite contingents so that the final report to the King can be made. Fear not though, friend Thorongil. You shall once again have the pleasure of my company before the moon is full."

Aragorn grinned. "Perish the thought."

* * *

Arlath's company was underway well before nightfall. Just as promised, Eolad had fashioned a crutch for Thorongil. It was now strapped to his saddle off-weighted by his sword. Unfortunately his bow and quiver were casualties of war. Aragorn did not mind so much, however. He was disappointed, but thankfully they were simply standard Dúnedain issue, and though he was quite comfortable with their use, they didn't hold high sentimental value.

Thankfully the arrows he had taken from the twins back in Imladris did not make the trip with him. He had left them at the bottom of his trunk in Strathcomb, buried under spare cloaks and extra tunics. They had become too painful a reminder for him to keep staring at them all the time, especially since he was genuinely trying to forget his past life in the North and all that he had run from.

Now that he was on the road home to Strathcomb, Aragorn was grateful that the arrows didn't make the trip with him, for then they would have been claimed along with his quiver by the rockslide he had created. It was an odd juxtaposition that he should be so grateful for the preservation of such ghosts from his former life at the same time he was looking forward to going home to Strathcomb where such trinkets were stored out of sight and mind.

If he thought about it, Aragorn would have been torn between on the one hand being happy that his heart was beginning to distance himself from his memories of home and family in the North, for this distance would make this life, in exile from his exile, much easier to endure, and on the other feeling like such sentiments were the cruelest form of betrayal of those who had once loved him dearly. To try and take the Evenstar from her family and her people was insult enough, but to then go around and deliberately try to forget everything the elves had ever done for him? That was twisting the knife further indeed!

Thankfully Aragorn chose not to dwell on such things, for in his heart of hearts he already knew them to be true. No, instead he decided to focus on the miracle of the Valar that spared him on that mountainside and how Folca had assured him that no living man was being left behind. He had just emerged from his first war as a citizen of Rohan, and that war had been a decisive victory. Now was time for happiness and celebration, of victory songs and joyous reunions with loved ones, and when he arrived back in Strathcomb and assured Lindewyn that he had brought Folca home safe, Aragorn intended to do just that.

He had all night for his dreams to subject him to the horrors of war and of the men he had not the skill to save. He could afford to fill his waking hours with a little bit of merriment.

"How do you fare, Thorongil?"

Arlath had ridden up beside him and effectively disturbed him from his musings.

"Well enough to wish this journey were over," Aragorn answered truthfully. "My knees do not like compensating for my immobilized ankle as I ride."

Arlath laughed. "I know exactly of what you speak," he said. "I too have had the misfortune of having to ride back to town sporting a leg injury."

"It is not an occurrence that I should like to repeat."

"You and me both, Thorongil. You and me both." They laughed some but then fell into silence again. They rode side by side without speaking again for nearly a mile, seemingly contented to let unspoken words lie hidden.

"Thorongil?" Well, Aragorn was content to let it lie. Apparently Arlath was not.

"Yes?"

"You know, a good portion of the company owes you their lives—myself included."

Aragorn shrugged off the attention. "I only did what I felt was my duty, sir."

"Nonsense," Arlath dismissed. "Healing the wounded was your duty. Running off into the ravine and getting the orcs to use their own equipment to orchestrate a rescue? That's going above and beyond the call, Thorongil. By far."

Aragorn felt his cheeks begin to flush at the sudden praise. "I am merely grateful to not have to carry two hundred additional deaths on my conscience."

"But it was not your responsibility to save us. Had you not come and we had perished, you conscience still would have been clear."

"Only until I returned to Strathcomb, where I would have had the burden of telling Lindewyn that just like Bretta, I was unable to bring Folca home to her alive, and more importantly, that I did not even try."

"And had you died on that mountain she would have lost the both of you," Arlath said seriously.

Aragorn smiled sadly. "Yes, but I would not have had to live with the guilt of it."

Arlath shook his head, momentarily at a loss for words.

"Your demons must be dark indeed, Thorongil of the North, in order for you to almost willfully shroud yourself in guilt the way you do. The world is not your concern, Thorongil, do not carry it on your back or its weight will bury you young."

The conversation ended there. Arlath galloped to the head of the column, his peace spoken. Aragorn watched him go and then his gaze flickered briefly to the left, off north. When his eyes returned ahead he was staring east, farther east than their destination. East to Gondor, and Mordor beyond.

"Thorongil carries nothing," he said to no one, and no one heard. "Responsibility for Arda rests on Aragorn's shoulders, but he died long ago."

* * *

Nearly two cycles of the moon after Aragorn had first ridden out of Edoras to war, he found himself staring across the plains of Rohan at the capital once more. Horns were blown and answered, and bells were rung within the city. The city gates were opened wide, and it seemed as though all of Edoras had turned out to greet them. The streets were lined with people—mostly women, children, and the old, and they were throwing wreaths of sage and symbelmynë to honor the riders. Cheers rang through every corner of the city as the soldiers passed, making their way outside again, to their main encampment.

Aragorn led his horse over to a small clearing near the rear of the encampment. He eased himself off of Frelaf's back, landing squarely on his good foot. He slid the crutch out from its stowed position and used it to brace himself as he then removed his sword and fastened it to his belt.

That was the last of his worldly possessions now. Everything else had been taken in the rockslide or shredded for bandages.

Aragorn held his crutch off the ground and used the gelding to support his weight as he hobbled over to the office tent where he had signed on the dotted line that he was responsible for Frelaf.

"Excuse me?" He called out. "I have a horse to return."

Shuffling heard from within the tent. Then the man whom Aragorn recognized as the chief stable hand emerged, carrying a ledger. He noticed that the gelding was still fully tacked and nearly leveled Aragorn with an incredulously disproving look, but by then Aragorn had gone back to leaning on the crutch and had slipped his arm back into the sling he never wore to immobilize his injured arm.

"Of course," the stable hand said softly, almost in apology for the words he nearly spoke. "I'll take him."

"Don't I have to sign for him?" Aragorn asked pleasantly.

The stable hand shook his head. "I'll take care of it." He grabbed the reins from Aragorn.

"Thank you." Aragorn stroked Frelaf's neck a few times while whispering something Elvish that the stable hand didn't quite hear or comprehend. A smile and another stroke and Aragorn shifted his weight on his crutches and turned to go. The stable hand led the gelding away.

Aragorn slowly made his way over to the barracks tents. He vaguely remembered which one he had used before, but they all looked dreadfully similar. He decided that in the end it did not matter, so he chose a random tent and then in that tent, a random cot. He unbuckled his sword and put it on the ground next to his crutch. He hated to admit it, but the ride took a lot more out of him that it should have on account of having to balance in the saddle with his knees. He groaned to think how out of shape that made him and vowed to practice his riding more as soon as his injuries allow it.

But for now, a nice, long nap. He can worry about the rest later.

* * *

"Here you are, Thorongil!"

Aragorn moaned and rolled over. His eyes fluttered open and he saw Eolad kneeling beside his cot.

"Go away…" He muttered and tried to roll back over. Eolad's hand on his arm stopped him.

"I don't think so," the apprentice said through an amused grin. "I've been looking all over for you. You turned your horse in but didn't report to the healer's tent." A hand went to Aragorn's forehead to check for fever.

"I don't need to be healed. I need to sleep."

"And sleep you shall," Eolad agreed, the hand drifting down from the forehead to check Aragorn's pulse at his neck. "In the healer's tent, where I can keep a proper eye on you."

"I can assure you that watching me sleep is a very boring pastime," Aragorn informed Eolad irritably as the apprentice healer began manipulating the fingers attached to Aragorn's injured arm. Aragorn winced and pulled his hand away.

"Well then I pity your girlfriend in the North," Eolad responded as he began drawing back Aragorn's tunic from the neckline, trying to inspect the arrow wound. Then suddenly Aragorn's hand encircled Eolad's wrist in a vice-like grip.

"I am fine," he said with frost in his voice. "My wounds are healing nicely. Remember that I too am a healer. I know what my body is doing at current. Now go and see to those who really need the attentions of a healer and leave me here to dream about my girlfriend from the North in peace from your irksome inferences." Aragorn then shoved Eolad's hand away.

"Fault me not for doing my duty, Thorongil," Eolad said evenly, the lines of his face set in grim determination as he backed away and stood up. "If my bedside manner has provoked you then I am sorry. I meant no offense. But you _will_ be moved into the healer's tent, Thorongil. Even if I need to summon half the guards to carry you there and then strap you down."

Aragorn's response was to petulantly roll over and show Eolad his back.

"On your honor I am giving you the time to relocate yourself without the embarrassment of being slung over someone's shoulder like an errant child. When I return, I had better not find you still in this bed."

Eolad left the tent without further preamble.

Aragorn remained still, silent, listening to see if he would return. After a minute slipped by, and then two, Aragorn sighed in tired relief and rolled back around. He already felt guilty for the way he had treated his friend, but then Eolad had to mention Arwen and then all bets were off.

Aragorn forced himself into a sitting position and rand a tired hand across his face. He seriously considered finding Eolad and apologizing for his behavior, but that would involve admitting that it truly was Eolad's bedside manner that had upset him, and that meant confessing to the fact that it was being reminded of Arwen that upset him, so he decided against it. He would apologize later, he reasoned. Right now he needed some fresh air to clear his head of all his thoughts of Arwen.

Aragorn left the barracks tent, sword strapped to his belt and hobbling on his crutch. He hated the thing, truly. He hated how it limited his movements and made him feel like a cripple. However, he would be off the crutch before Folca returns to camp, which is a lot better than the pour souls whose legs he had to remove to stave off the gangrene who probably wouldn't survive the rest of winter anyway.

With a snort Aragorn conceded that the only way to sleep and not dream of the horrors he had just lived through was to think of Arwen as he falls asleep. Peaceful dreams of his beloved then ensue, and their pain is a refreshing change from the pains of war.

Aragorn's heart was heavy as he left the barracks tent, for he was unable to dwell on a single thought that didn't pain him. When living and moving hurts so badly, thinking shouldn't bring pain as well.

Aragorn found his way to the edge of the encampment. He didn't want to report to the healer's tent just yet. Instead he found a small outcropping of rock and slowly made his way on top of it. Then he sat down heavily and crossed his legs. His gaze was fixed northwest, off towards Lothlórien and Arwen, and farther than that, towards what used to be his home. He sat here for what felt like an eternity as the images he didn't want to see flashed through his mind like those slung from a broken projector.

He saw men, young men, goodly and strong, reduced to crying children screaming out for their mothers as he tried in vain to put their pieces back together. He saw piles of dirty bandages mingling with the piles of clean ones to the point where no one knew which was which. He heard screams, wails, the cries of the dying choked back by their own blood. He saw their eyes as the light slowly left them and they glazed over, living orbs replaced by dull slips of glass. He smelt the lingering odor of death and decay, as blood and tears dried alongside other fluids that no one took any notice of as they stained their skin and clothes and hair. He smelt the putrid odor of burning flesh as they laid the dead to rest the only way they could.

He saw the desperation in the scout's eyes as he relayed his story. He saw the gratitude there as he embraced death once his deed was done. He saw the helplessness on everyone's face, and the sad resignation that mingled with acceptance, when no one thought that the men on the mountain could be saved.

He wished he could have seen his own face when he realized that they were right.

He saw the battlefield, with its horrors peacefully blanketed in freshly fallen snow, concealing the truth that now lay hidden. He saw the men in the ravine, calmly awaiting their end, and he saw that dam that trapped them there, standing still and silent in the wintry air as a towering monument to the crumbling hopes of men.

He saw orcs. Not the smaller goblins of the north, but true vile out-of-Mordor orcs. They were tall and black with scraggly hair and burning yellow eyes. They stank of death and sulfur and ash and easily towered above an ordinary man in the heat of battle. _These_ were the creatures immortalized as villains in Elven song. _These_ were the creatures that the elves had fought against in the Last Alliance, and the creatures that the men of Rohan, Gondor, and Dol Amroth fight against in their daily struggles against the ever-increasing shadows.

What right did he, ranger of the north, ever have to claim that he has fought against orcs before?

Yet the battle was won. By some miracle of the Valar, he had managed to manipulate the orcs into using their own siege weaponry to break down the dam. On top of that, he had managed to survive the ordeal with only a sprained ankle and minor arrow wound to show for it. By the end of the week he'll be walking right again, and by the end of winter hopefully he will be able to make a fist again.

How was he so lucky? How, when he was so brash, foolhardy, and naïve? How did it come to pass that his actions were rewarded with victory and not punished by grave injury or death? Why was he spared, when so many much more deserving souls were not?

Through the horror, the death, the decay, the putrid odors men willfully ignore so as to not allow their minds to touch upon the cause… through the cries of pain, the moans of agony, the wails of those in mourning for lost kin… through the numbing fatigue and crushing despair… through the orcs and the ravine and the battle plain and the field hospital and the funeral pyres and the rockslide… Through all these things that Aragorn has endured in what was to be the first of many wars that he would fight in his time here in the south of Middle Earth… his vision faded to a misty gray, the kind that lingers on a pale spring morning before the sun breaks swiftly across the sky, highlighting the dreary landscape in stunning reds and purples and golds as the sky rolls over to blue and the colors shrink into puffy white clouds. Here on the brink of dawn, Arwen seemed to float across the dreary landscape before his eyes. Regal and sad, hair billowing in the chilling pre-dawn breeze. He could almost reach her, almost touch the softness of her gown as it swished by him. He could smell the airy fragrance of the rainwater as it hovered between refreshing cool and stinking damp.

Then her vision seemed drawn away by something. She turned her head away from him, and Aragorn could not speak. Then suddenly the dawn broke across the sky, streaming out of the west and crushing all shadows in its path. Aragorn, standing east, was blinded by the brilliance and brought up a quick hand to shield his eyes. The distance between them seemed to stretch as she was pulled away from him by the light that never quite killed the shadows around his feet.

He reached out for her, but she didn't see. She didn't even notice him as she retreated behind curtains of light and shrank further and further from view until in a flash of brilliance she was gone. Aragorn found himself standing alone in the field where Arwen just vacated. He glanced down at his feet, and the shadows that lingered there snaked out like living things, twisting forward and writing, draping themselves over the planescape and turning all the light to lifeless shadow.

The shadows stretched heavenward, and when it reached the clouds they heaved in the deafening silence, turning over to gray and black and releasing their contents unmercifully cold upon the man still standing where whence his love had gone.

The rain wet Aragorn's face and chilled him. He shivered once but didn't move. Instead he sat down, and then lied down. He curled into the fetal position there on the wet grass and let the cold and shadow and rain consume him. It burned like acid and stank of brimstone and ash but he paid it no heed as he lie there, eyes open yet unseeing in the slowly drowning shadows. His only thoughts were that Arwen did not have to see the damning darkness left in her wake as she departed, and that was counted as a good thing.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, Aragorn lie curled in the fetal position upon the rock that he had been sitting on, fast asleep now in the growing twilight. His face was wet with the tracks of the tears he didn't notice he had shed. Above him, Gil-Estel shone brighter than all others until it drifted behind a wisp of cloud and disappeared.

* * *

**Translations:**

"_Im dénië, Adar. Im únolë lle iareva aiye nin. Im úlleva estel."_: Q: I am sorry (lit: I lament), Father. I (have) not (the) wisdom you once (lit: of old) beheld in me. I am not your (lit: of you) hope.

_Arda: _the world

_Adan/edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race

"_Valar ve astaldor…"_: Q: The Valar favor (lit: like) the brave (lit: valiant (pleural)).

_Westron_: the common tongue

_Adunaic_: the language of Númenór, a derivative of Elvin

_Khuzdul_: the language of the dwarves

**Notes:**

-_On ballistas_: think "giant crossbow." They are built to throw either large projectile bolts or even stones, but send them on a (more or less) straight path (as opposed to the sweeping arcs of catapults and trebuchets).


	11. Ch 7: Happy birthday Estel

Spring, 2958  
_Lothlórien _

Elladan sat on his bed in the room that he shared with his twin during their stays in the Golden Wood. He had a whetstone in one hand and was idly sharpening his sword. The blade sang with each stroke of the stone and kept time with Elrohir's movements as he paced across the floor.

"When you wear a hole through the floor, don't expect me to rush forth to save you from falling through the flet."

"And when you've sharpened your sword down to a dagger don't expect me to lend you mine."

The two lapsed into silence again, and the sounds of stone grating on metal continued to keep time with inaudible Elven footfalls. If this routine was a test to see which twin would be the first to successfully annoy his brother, then Elrohir won. Elladan finally dropped the stone and chucked his sword unceremoniously across the mattress in a huff.

"Oh, this is pointless!" He bemoaned as he flopped down on his back on the mattress and covered his temples with the palms of his hands. "We have lingered here too long. We should have left weeks ago!"

Elrohir ceased his pacing. With a soft sigh he came to sit at the foot of his brother's bed. Sad eyes rested on his twin as he took Elladan's discarded sword and sheathed it, only to set it aside again.

"I have never seen you so anxious to leave our grandparents' realm," he said, his voice neutral. "This used to be the one place where we could go to forget about time for—"

"A time?" Elladan finished for his twin, smirking slightly.

Elrohir softly snorted a small laugh while Elladan sighed.

"It is not Lothlórien, gwadur-nin," Elladan confessed. "It's just…" But words failed him then, and he sighed again and closed his eyes.

"You are restless," Elrohir concluded, smirking slightly.

Elladan opened his eyes and sat up partially. He reclined on one elbow and arched an amused eyebrow at his twin.

"I know, gwadur-nin," Elrohir continued. "I feel it, too."

"We must leave, Elrohir," Elladan said seriously as he sat up fully. "We are of no use here."

"And we are of no use in Rohan, either," Elrohir added. "We agreed to winter here to be with our sister."

"Arwen…" Elladan breathed. He stood from his bed and walked to the edge of the flet. He braced his hands on the thin rope balustrade and leaned heavily into it. The Elven rope sagged some but didn't give. "I do not understand it, Elrohir."

Elrohir belatedly stood from the bed and crossed to his brother's side.

"We do not need to understand it, gwadur-nin. All we can do is encourage her to pursue this happiness she's found."

"You mistake my meaning," Elladan replied with a smirk. "She and Estel love each other, and as soon as Estel reclaims the throne of Kings we shall see them married. I see how Arwen is happier now than she has ever been and in my heart I know that their union is right."

"Then what don't you understand?"

A pause.

"Elladan?"

"How she can be so calm!" Elladan finally admitted, irritation plain in his voice. He pushed off the balustrade and turned to face his brother. "How can all of Lothlórien can be so calm about it all? Estel is off in Rohan somewhere doing Vala-knows-what feeling like his entire family has condemned and abandoned him. How could he think that of us, gwadur-nin? And more importantly, how can we allow ourselves to be convinced that we should simply let him to do so? We have every power to end this nightmare and bring him home again, to reassure him that he is our brother and that we love him. We could ride to Rohan right now and tell him this! We could tell him that we approve of his love for Arwen; that we _all_ approve!"

It seemed then that Elladan's words ran dry. He turned violently on his heels and paced a few steps away.

Elrohir remained where he was, watching his twin's fists ball with rage as his back went rigid with tension. Mentally he counted to ten. By seven Elladan had relaxed again, just as Elrohir had expected he would. Only then did he deem it time to speak.

"Yet we do not," he said to Elladan's back. "We sit here in Lothlórien, watching Arwen, and daernana, and all the rest of Lothlórien take comfort in Estel's destiny. We watch them sit on their heels and do nothing, for they believe that this pain our brother is enduring is nothing but the heat of the forge and that Estel will be tempered unbreakable by it."

As always with Elladan, his silence was his admission.

After a long moment he turned around.

"I see how much Arwen loves Estel. I hear it in her voice in the way she speaks of him. I see it in her eyes, Elrohir. Already I feel their bonds of love through her fëa. How can this great love, this great sustaining force that has brought our sister out of contabescence and back to the living world once more—"

"Be content to let him suffer so?"

Elladan hung his head, half a nod. Elrohir closed the gap between them.

"I do not understand, gwadur-nin," Elladan said quietly. Then finally he looked up, at last meeting his brother's eyes. "How can she—how can they _all_, be willing to let him suffer so, seemingly in the name of love?"

"Are you really asking that, gwadur-nin?" Elrohir asked softly as he placed a hand on his twin's slumped shoulder. "Or are you asking why we have thus far agreed to go along with them?"

Elladan smirked slightly, a sad, ironic half-smile.

"Either one will do."

Elrohir gave the shoulder a soft, reassuring squeeze. "I wish I had a real answer to give you," he said. "But I am not counted among the Wise. All that I can say is this: we both know that the Wise have not come to this decision lightly, especially daerada. If this is what they feel is best, then I don't see that we have a choice but to respect their decision. Especially if Arwen has."

"Oh but you're wrong," Elladan said, that sad, ironic half-smile dancing about his lips. "We could choose to go against their wishes and drag Estel home by the ear."

Elrohir returned the smirk at last. "Yet we do not."

"No, we do not. Though the minute Arwen changes her mind—"

"We will ride straight into Mordor if we have to in order to bring our brother home again."

Elladan nodded. "Aye, gwadur-nin." Then the mirth left him. Elrohir instinctively knew to draw his hand away. "But until that time… here with our kin we must remain. Hoping and praying from a distance that the Valar will guide our brother's steps and one day bring him home again."

"Estel is strong," Elrohir reassured. "And we—his family, have raised him well. I have faith in him, Elladan; faith that he will not depart the circles of this world without accomplishing all that has been ordained for him to accomplish. We shall see our brother again. I know it."

Elladan sighed, and it seemed as though the smile tried to return, though it was swallowed whole by worry.

"Oh, I know I shall see Estel again, gwadur-nin," he said. "It is the waiting part that is killing me."

Elrohir couldn't help but smile. "Indeed," he agreed. "It seems that where Arwen's contabescence has ended ours has just begun."

Finally, feebly, the smile returned to Elladan's face. "Yet somehow I think that you have found a remedy for that too," he said with a slight shake of his head.

"But of course, Elladan," Elrohir admitted. "What else is there to do but to continue that which we have always done in times of temporary darkness such as this?"

Elladan's smile turned wicked. "Return to Imladris," he declared, "and take up the hunt anew."

Elrohir's smile turned to mirror his twin's. The two of them laughed then, and clasped arms to cement their agreement.

"We should tell daerada and daernana that we intend to leave tomorrow at first light," Elladan announced.

"They will not be thrilled with the apparent haste of our decision," Elrohir warned, "and will most likely deduce the reason."

"So let them deduce," Elladan dismissed. "Estel is their marionette, his destiny the strings they pull as they see fit. Surely they did not expect us to sit in the audience for this and be content."

"Of course not. But in turn we cannot expect them to be content to know that we are picketing against their decision by biding our time hunting orcs."

Elladan's eyes grew hard. "If you can honestly tell me that at this point you truly care of their opinions of our decision gwadur-nin, then we can simply state it to mean that we no longer wish to be idle here, and that there is good work to be done back home with our own patrols or with the rangers. Can you say that, Elrohir?"

Elrohir was silent. His gaze drifted to the floor. Elladan nodded once, knowingly.

"Come then," he said. "We must prepare."

* * *

_Mirkwood_

"Have the Dúnedain taken their leave?"

The King of Mirkwood was walking down one of the many stoned corridors of his palace, talking with his seneschal. They had just left the Healing Ward, which was being put to use again.

"Yes, my King. Those who are not staying in the Healing Ward."

King Thranduil sighed tiredly. It had been a very long day.

"And the reinforcements?"

"Twenty warriors were sent to aid the patrols. The spiders will soon regret congregating themselves so thickly this close to our borders. They shall find that their pray still possess the greater numbers."

"For now, at least, Ithilion," said the King. "For now."

"I would not worry, sire. Do not forget Tarmion's Yellow Company is much more numerous than the sparse few that were injured. They did us a great service by containing the infestation before calling for aid."

"Tarmion has proven a great ally these past years," the King observed.

"Indeed he has, my King. Much like Thrador before him, and Algareb before that."

Thranduil glanced askance at his seneschal. "Something troubles you, mellon iaur. What is it?"

"I must now see to the burial preparations for four unfortunate edain."

Thranduil winced slightly in sympathy. "I'm sure their companions will help you in tracking down their families. It really is best if we let them handle the final details for their kin."

"That does not make the task much lighter on my heart, my King," Ithilion ruefully admitted.

"I would be rather worried if it did, Ithilion," Thranduil replied.

The seneschal laughed slightly until it was stolen by a sigh.

"When we began honoring our Dúnedain allies of the Yellow Company," he began, "I proportioned a large plot of land in the protected forests for their burial ground. Our own masons and carvers have the contract of erecting their tombs. That was ten generations ago in the reckoning of men. Now it seems as though the gentle glade where our noble fallen allies lie has grown too crowded and a new area must be approved. I have four departed souls whose bodies I do not know where to lie to rest."

The king seemed distressed by this news. "I shall look into your plight at once, Ithilion. More land shall be given, I promise you."

"We have known this day would come for several years now, my King," Ithilion pointed out gravely. "I think, in some manner, no one at Court wanted to address it until the need was directly upon us."

"You seek to rebuke me for my lack of diligence," Thranduil presumed. There was no indignation or hostility between either of them, however. Ithilion may be seneschal to King Thranduil, but Thranduil son of Oropher will always remain student to Master Ithilion. Every now and then, this latter fact must be pointed out, and both accept it. "But you are right," Thranduil continued. "The matter has been brushed aside for far too long."

"Your subjects have little love for the edain," Ithilion reminded his king. "But respect should count enough instead."

"There are some who do and there are some who do not. Their memories are long and their hearts unforgiving, as so these times have made them."

"Bowen's people are our allies in this war, and should be treated as such."

"They are given that consideration, Ithilion. However, one does not need to like or trust one's allies."

"Our own wounded in the Ward are alive only because of the timely arrival of the Dúnedain. No Mirkwood warriors perished at the expense of four of Tarmion's people. Perhaps I have lived too long, my King, but I find it difficult not to like nor trust those who have repeatedly saved the lives of my kin at great hurt to themselves."

"In times of need, our two peoples work well together," the King defended. "Our soldiers default to Dúnedain command when they are the more knowledgeable and the same holds true for the reverse. Many times has Elven blood been shed to spare edain lives just as the reverse was true today. Our people are astute enough in battle to know that the agents of the Dark Lord are the _real_ enemy, and therefore I find that I care little about what hushed opinions are spoken behind closed barracks doors."

"I have not been as vigilant in turning deaf ears to the opinions of our people," Ithilion remarked. "I can tell you that for most of them, Dúnedain are a wholly separate race from the other edain—Elvish blood notwithstanding. They would shoot edain on sight if caught trespassing within our borders, while Dúnedain are at least offered guarded greeting first. Whether they do this out of true feelings or out of duty to the orders of their King is nearly an even split amongst them."

"Yet the orders are obeyed, Ithilion. That is the greatest point of all."

"Is it?" The seneschal questioned with sincere curiosity. "I have witnessed how, under guard, the kin of the fallen have been allowed to visit the graves of their loved ones. Yet now it seems that so many of their faces are known to our soldiers that they may walk about the grounds unescorted. Shadows of life they seem, sitting by the stones of their fathers or brothers or sons, telling the tails of their continued trials in the living world and singing sad songs of lamentation that moves even the souls of our own people so that more often than not Elven voices are raised in unison with the edain."

"There are two great unifiers of people," Thranduil answered. "War and grief. Here in Mirkwood we have plenty to share between both races."

"Yet these same voices that share in mourning also whisper behind closed doors of their dislike and distrust of those they praised in song. Forgive me, my King, but I do not enjoy such duplicity."

"In all honesty, Ithilion, neither do I. Yet I cannot order a change of public opinion. I seek only to do what is best for my kingdom, and I enforce our laws and mandates accordingly. We fight for the same cause, and the Dúnedain have proven great allies for it. I do not wish for more than that. I do not look for friendship with them. They are edain; we are the Moriquendi, Sindar and Nandor followers of my father, and Silvan who have dwelt in this great forest since the elder days. Precious little we have in common and I cannot fault my people for desiring that it remain that way."

"Nor should you, my King. However, the Dúnedain as a people deserve to be respected for more than their skills with bow and sword and their meticulous efforts in this war."

"That is your opinion, mellonin, and while I value it, I am afraid that it bares little relevancy here."

"Perhaps not, sire," Ithilion conceded. "Forgive an old elf his musings."

"Always, Ithilion, always."

There was silence for a time then, each elf apparently lost in his own thoughts. Finally Thranduil decided to give voice to his.

"Yet I sense that there was more thought behind this conversation than your simple dislike for the current duplicitous status of inter-race relations."

Ithilion's response was a tired sigh. "Legolas," he said.

"Legolas? What of Legolas?" Thranduil questioned.

"It has been his close friendship with Strider of the Dúnedain that has started to turn the hearts of our people. Your subjects love their prince, and more importantly they trust his judgment. They perceive that he has seen great worth in Estel, and this has given them cause to reconsider their opinions of the edain. Even though some have allowed their prejudices to turn their hearts against your son, it because of Legolas that many now are more willing to give thought to the worth of their allies."

"Legolas has not been this full of life since before Finril died," Thranduil observed. "Estel was aptly named by Lord Elrond. He truly is a beacon of hope, for that is what Legolas has found in their friendship."

"And when he loses this newfound hope?"

Thranduil stopped their trek with an outstretched hand and turned surprised eyes to his seneschal.

"What do you mean, Ithilion? Speak plainly!"

Ithilion sighed again. "One of the deceased rangers was not part of the Yellow Company. His markings labeled him as one of Balran's messengers."

Thranduil's brow furrowed in thought. "Balran? Of the Violet Company?"

Ithilion nodded. "He was carrying a package: a small wooden crate, addressed in Westron, bound for Imladris. It came to Violet Company from Dale, out of Rohan."

"Rohan…"

"I have the package in my office, waiting for a courier to take it to the House of Elrond."

Thranduil's face set in grim lines and his eyes hardened. "I will send for Legolas. He would demand to act as courier if he was here to know about the package, and if that box contains what I sense you fear it to then no doubt he would wish to be with Estel's family when they open it."

Ithilion nodded, the sentiment falling somewhere between satisfaction and resignation.

"Very well, sire."

* * *

_Imladris_

Elrond sat in his study, reviewing Erestor's reports on the status of the spring planting. It was something like the eighth time in the past two hours that he's tried to read over this document. However, each time he would start it, Elrond would come up with a decent excuse not to finish it. The latest border patrol from Glorfindel, for example, had eaten nearly a thirty minutes of his time. After that, it was an updated inventory of his current cache of healing herbs. Now that the ground has begun to thaw plans for restocking winter's depletions were in order. Elrond had even gone so far as to condense the report into a list of Imladris's most urgent herbal needs and then cross-reference that with the list Thranduil had sent him of Mirkwood's requests for herbs to be delivered in trade for some fine Dorwinion brandy.

Finally there was no paperwork left for Elrond to do without getting up from his desk and hunting it down, and so he came back to the report on the spring planting at last. Unfortunately, by the third paragraph in his eyes began to glaze over. Elrond blinked several times to clear his vision, but the damn piece of parchment refused to cooperate for his eyes. At last Elrond sighed and leaned back in his chair, stretching his back and deciding not to fight it.

The planting reports were always the hardest ones to get through.

When Elrond had first established Imladris back in the second age, luxuries such as its now-renowned gardens did not exist. Only after the Last Alliance, during the deceitful days of innocent peace that followed did this once military outpost begin to adopt the charms that have since grown to give Imladris the title of 'the last homely house east of the sea.'

It was mostly Celebrían's doing. She's the one who first started the gardens. As the new Lady of Imladris, she was the one who laid the groundwork, organized the planting, read these reports and took charge of the entire affair. Then after she sailed, Arwen took up the task for a time. Yet she is spending more and more time in Lothlórien these days… these years. Alas now the task has fallen on Elrond's shoulders, that he might oversee Celebrian's gardens, to keep her presence felt and to honor her memory as the Lady of Imladris, the tender of her gardens…

The spring planting reports were always the hardest to endure.

Elrond sighed tiredly and stood from his desk. It wasn't a wholly indecent hour for an elf-lord to cease his duties for the day. Perhaps a walk, down along the banks of the Bruinen, would help to clear his fëa of the melancholy that Imladris's daunting gardens had instilled in him.

The river was always peaceful here. Elrond and Vilya ensured it so. The Bruinen ran wide and shallow in this spot and the current was gentle, perfect for fishing or even bathing in the summer months. The gentle rushing of the water over the slowly cascading waterfalls that lie hidden just around the bend provide a soothing backdrop for this quiet scene, and Elrond had been quite well known to take full advantage of it.

Slowly and in no hurry, the elf-lord walked along the river's bank, finally coming to stand beside the top-most tier of waterfall. From this point onward the river drops downward. Over the next mile there are many waterfalls like this one, gently cascading in long stony steps of rushing water. They don't have quite the breathtaking visage of their larger cousins farther upstream that mark the boundaries of the Elven realm, but their subtle majesty is seldom overlooked by those wishing for a quieter, more peaceful spot for reflection.

"Im tira lle meleth-nin," Elrond said softly to the river, allowing himself to be calmed by feeling it's pulse through his link with Vilya. He sighed in tired contentment as he did so, until the peaceful moment was broken.

"You have become a creature of habit, Peredhil."

Elrond nearly started at the sound of the voice. Quickly his eyes searched the riverbank and easily spotted Glorfindel, who was reclining on the stony beach of the opposite bank nearly twenty feet downstream and therefore also nearly twenty feet below. Elrond smirked, noticing now the splash marks on the opposite bank that told the tale of how the Vanyar had jumped across the stones of the waterfall to cross the river before walking down the slightly more manageable path on the other side. He looked back to Glorfindel, who was grinning up at him from his reclined position and making no moves either to stand and greet his lord or even to invite Elrond to join him.

Elrond recognized the ploy. He gathered up the bottoms of his robes and swiftly yet surely picked his way across the top of the waterfall after the fashion of his advisor. He then made his way down the side of the riverbank and over to the reclining balrog-slayer, who seemed to nod towards his lord in satisfaction before at last standing to present himself.

"I still remember a time when you forbade all of Imladris from crossing the falls to prevent elflings from striving to emulate their elders."

Elrond couldn't help but chuckle as he came to stand beside his longtime friend.

"As do I," he agreed. "Though I also seem to remember a certain captain of the guard that refused to obey that command."

"I was always careful to be sure that no elflings were present," Glorfindel defended merrily. "And besides, there were always one or two particularly cleaver elflings that managed to come up with the idea on their own."

Elrond couldn't help but groan. "Do not remind me, mellonin. Celebrían was far from pleased when she learned exactly how Elrohir had broken his arm that summer."

Glorfindel couldn't help but chuckle. "Yes, I would image she reacted the same way Elladan did when Estel confessed the reason why his Midsummer Festival tunic was ruined."

Elrond's quiet laugh was stolen by the stab of pain he felt in his heart.

"They have left Lothlórien," he said, feeling the hurt anew.

"We have received no word from Galadriel," Glorfindel reminded Elrond pointedly.

"Nor will we," Elrond added. "They did not give enough warning for the Galadhrim to forewarn us of their coming."

Glorfindel nodded gravely. "Will they be returning here?"

"I know not," Elrond confessed. "I sense only that they desire to take up the hunt again. They would spend their time roosting out orcs in the Misty Mountains if the conditions there permitted them to do so."

"Hopefully the late-winter snows will change their minds on that."

"Perhaps," Elrond conceded with a slight nod. "I wish that I could see more. All I have is faintest sense of them as they are drawing nearer to Imladris."

"Today of all days, Elrond, I will take that as proof enough."

Elrond sighed and closed his eyes. "Has all of Imladris remembered?"

"Need you ask, Elrond? This is twenty-ninth day of Coirë. Wherever Estel is, he just turned twenty-seven."

"No one has mentioned anything about the day being observed."

"They probably do not wish to upset you," Glorfindel offered as kindly as he could.

Elrond sighed. "I will instruct the cooks to prepare the traditional feast for Estel's birthday. He is still a part of this House, and I will not allow anyone to forget the fact in the name of misguided propriety."

Glorfindel surprised Elrond by laughing.

"I would not worry about that, Elrond. Erestor has already taken the liberties."

Elrond smiled fondly. "I shall have to thank him for his presumptuousness, though for some reason I suspect that he was not alone in this endeavor."

Glorfindel's response to the subtle accusation was to smile and shrug in feigned innocence.

"I have no idea what you mean, Peredhil."

Elrond smirked. "I'm sure."

Then Glorfindel's smile turned wide and genuine. "But come, Elrond! If we wish to partake of Estel's birthday feast we must be getting back. It would not be fitting for the Lord of Imladris to attend such an event with damp and dirty robes."

"It's not exactly fitting for her captain of guards, either," Elrond pointed out.

"I'm still more soldier than elf-lord here, Elrond," Glorfindel reminded him. "Therefore I'm entitled."

"If you say so, mellonin," Elrond said dismissively. Then, like two mischievous elflings, the two elf-lords picked up the bottoms of their robes, climbed the riverbank, and skipped across the stones of the waterfall to come to rest safely on the opposite shore. They then began walking in companionable silence back towards the Last Homely House.

"If you want my opinion, Peredhil," Glorfindel piped up, breaking the silence. "You don't get dirty nearly as often as you should."

"This may come as a surprise to you, Vanyar, but I rarely _ever_ want your opinion." Elrond was joking of course, and Glorfindel well knew it.

"Which is why I speak so freely; in the hopes that one day you might actually take the things I say to heart."

Elrond barked a laugh. "How about this, then? On the day that I return indoors dirty and you don't give me the third degree concerning my health and safety, then perhaps I'll start taking your advice to heart."

Glorfindel half-shrugged as he walked. "You have your charges, Elrond, and I of course have mine."

* * *

A lone unburdened Elven rider could travel between Thranduil's palace and Elrond's house in ten days, provided that they rest only for their horse and don't encounter anyone or anything else that might delay them. The official record of dawn on the eight day was held by Glorfindel, but Legolas, who had just urged his horse to halt on the banks of the Bruinen, wasn't intending to break any records. In fact, now that he was within sight of the Last Homely House, he found himself reluctant to continue on to his destination on this sunset of the ninth day of travel.

The urgency of his errand had made him hurry, but now, at the end, Legolas found that dread pulled equal weight with curiosity. He instinctively felt the weight of the small box in his traveling pack. Its writing could have been Estel's, but now was now smeared to the point where only one word was recognized: Rivendell. Ithilion said that it was taken from one of the fallen Dúnedain, a messenger of the Violet Company who was taking it from Dale in the footsteps of the last letters Estel had written. However those were letters, not packages. What cause would Estel have to be sending packages?

Rather than speculate Legolas urged his horse onward once more, hoping and praying that it really was Estel who sent it and not someone acting on his behalf, because that would mean—

"Noro lim, Tathren! Noro lim!"

Legolas's mare plunged into the shallows of the Bruinen and crossed without difficulty. From there Legolas wasted no time and rode straight up to the front of the house.

* * *

"My Lords! A rider approaches fast up from the banks of the Bruinen!" The relatively somber birthday feast was interrupted by the sudden appearance (and shouting) of one of the night watchmen. Elrond and Glorfindel rose from the table while Erestor, who sat facing the door, pushed back in his chair.

"He bears the colorings of Mirkwood!" The watchman added, and the three elf lords exchanged glances.

"Thranduil has not warned us to expect anyone and the next courier isn't due for weeks," Erestor informed them.

"Only Legolas would ride here so swiftly without warning," Elrond concluded.

"Perhaps he wanted to arrive in time for Estel's birthday celebration?" Glorfindel added without his usual mirth as he followed Elrond quickly out of the dining room with Erestor close at his heels. They were all thinking the same thing: perhaps Legolas has heard from Estel.

The three elf lords descended the marble stairs at the front doors of the Last Homely House just as Legolas slowed his horse to a stop. The night watch of Imladris had gathered around, along with just about anyone else that was with earshot of the initial warning.

"Apologies," Legolas demurred as he dismounted. "I did not mean to rouse the entire household."

"You could not help but do so," Elrond informed the prince. "We in Imladris know well that the only thing to bring the Prince of Mirkwood galloping to our doorstep is when he is carrying one of my sons home injured."

"Alas that I have made this journey alone," Legolas lamented. "Especially today."

"Estel would be honored that you remembered," said Glorfindel.

Legolas cast his eyes downward.

"What is it?" Elrond asked plainly though not without concern.

Legolas looked up again. "My Lords, I come baring news."

Three soft Elven gasps.

"…Of a sort."

"Do you bring word of Estel?" Elrond asked, barely remaining calm.

Legolas bit his lip. "I believe so," he answered tentatively. Before the lords of Imladris could question him he clarified: "A package has come to my possession. We know that it originated in Rohan. The address was badly smudged from water damage. The only discernable word was 'Rivendell,' and I cannot tell if the handwriting is Estel's."

"What sort of package?" Elrond questioned; desperation, curiosity, and impatience all swirling in his stormy eyes.

"Small," was Legolas's reply. "I have it with me in my pack."

"Might I suggest then that we retreat indoors to better light so that we may open it?" Erestor offered, ever the voice of reason.

Elrond nodded his ascension. "My study," he commanded.

Glorfindel left without prompting while Legolas allowed the pack to slide off of his shoulder and down his arm. He grabbed it protectively with both hands. Elrond then placed a paternal hand on Legolas's free shoulder and guided the clearly exhausted and troubled prince indoors while behind them Erestor was directing a groomsman to tend to Legolas's mare.

Elrond led Legolas through the house and up the stairs to the second floor where his private study was located. Legolas brought his pack over to Elrond's desk and set it down. He opened the pack and cautiously reached in with two hands to pull out the package. It was small, as he had said: a square crate made out of six planks of wood as long as a hand; and just as Legolas had described, the writing was unrecognizable and barely legible.

"Spiders are congregating near our borders," said the prince. "Their webs are becoming a danger. Six members of our patrol were ensnared and nearly found themselves as entrees for the vermin if it weren't for the timely arrival of a band of Dúnedain. Twelve members of the Yellow Company had chanced upon the nesting site." Legolas sighed, easily envisioning the scene in his mind. "I am told that the battle was fierce. The spiders were small, fast, deadly poisonous and alas more numerous than first thought. The Dúnedain could not destroy them all. They barely managed to secure the freedom of the elves before ordering all to retreat back towards the castle. Six of the Dúnedain were poisoned. Only two survived."

"I am sorry, Legolas," Elrond offered when it appeared that the prince had finished his tale. Legolas was idly fingering the box, his heart now tormenting him with thoughts of its contents. Neither noticed that Glorfindel had reappeared, carrying a tray with some of Estel's birthday feast as well as tall glass of water and a goblet of wine. He stood silently near the doorway, listening to the exchange.

"One of the Dúnedain," Legolas continued. "I did not chance to learn his name before I left. He was not part of Yellow Company, as originally thought. When the healers had stripped him of his traveling clothes in vain efforts to save him, they discovered that his dress and heraldry placed him as one of Balran's folk, part of the Violet Company. He had this package on his person, and was no doubt simply traversing the paths of Mirkwood with members of Yellow Company as a guide. His companions said that he had come to Mirkwood from Dale, and was bound for Rivendell."

"Estel has sent us word through Dale before," Elrond mused aloud. His eyes were fixed on the box.

Just then Glorfindel cleared his throat. "Open it, Elrond. Your hands will serve much better than your eyes."

Elrond blinked, not showing any signs of being startled by his seneschal. He walked over to the side of the desk tentatively, as though the package was a living thing that at any moment might lash out and attack him.

"And you, Prince Legolas, are going to sit down and have some dinner." Legolas nearly balked when Glorfindel presented the dinner tray before him. "Estel would throw a fit if you rode in for his birthday yet declined to partake of the feast."

Legolas's growling stomach made up his mind for him. He took the tray and found a seat on the settee. He didn't yet touch the food, however. His eyes were glued to Elrond, who held the small box in his hands.

"It's light…" Elrond observed as he held it up. "I don't feel much weight aside from the wood of the box."

"A stack of letters perhaps?" Glorfindel offered.

"Why would he send them all at once?" Legolas asked from where he was sitting.

Elrond ignored them both. He set the box down on his desk and grabbed a letter opener. He shoved the point of it between one wall of the box and its lid. A quick pry and the iron filings that served as nails came loose and the lid popped off. Elrond put the letter opener down and gingerly set the lid aside.

When he peered inside, his face became one of confusion.

"What's inside?" Legolas asked.

"Elrond?" Glorfindel followed quickly.

"Something small," Elrond replied. "Wrapped in green cloth." Slowly he reached in and removed the item. It wasn't heavy and fit squarely in the palm of his hand. Legolas placed his dinner aside and stood from the settee.

"What is it?" He asked, now more curious than afraid. It did not fit the description of anything Estel had taken with him, nor was it anything more symbolic, such as a lock of hair or scrap of Elven cloth, something to indicate that the brother of his heart had died and his friends in the south were alerting his family in the north.

Elrond slowly allowed the object to unravel itself. Finally it plopped heavily back into the palm of the elf-lord's hand, and he set the cloth aside.

"A medallion…" he breathed, almost in awe of this small trinket he held. He turned it over once and saw intricately carved details. "A horse's head!"

Glorfindel and Legolas gathered around. Sure enough, Elrond held a horse's head in profile, just smaller than the palm of his hand and no thicker than a dinner plate. The horse's nose was angled up, as though it was whinnying into the winds as it ran unbridled, as evidenced by the wild strands of its mane. At the base of its neck was a strange script that none of the elves could read.

"That must be the script of the Rohirric language," Glorfindel mused aloud.

Elrond nodded as he studied it. "I do not speak Rohirric," he confessed. "Imladris has not had dealings with Rohan since the nation was founded."

"That does not surprise me," said Legolas. "They trade with Dale and Laketown. We have learned from King Bard that the people of Rohan are superstitious. They fear the elves."

"There's something else here," Glorfindel called out. He was examining the box, and removed a folded piece of parchment from the bottom. He held the parchment up and looked to Elrond. "It is addressed to Lord Erestor."

"Erestor!" Legolas exclaimed in surprise.

"As seneschal, receiving packages from places like Dale is part of his duty," Elrond informed the prince. Legolas nodded, remembering that.

"I'll fetch him," Glorfindel offered. "I doubt he has gone anywhere far." The Vanyar handed the parchment off to Elrond as he left. The elf-lord fingered it gingerly, knowing that it was improper to open mail not addressed to him, especially when it was still uncertain if Estel had sent the package.

Yet from Estel or not, the package still concerned him, and that meant Elrond could care little for propriety. He unfolded the parchment and began to read. The flowing script of the High Tongue streamed across the page in the elegant handwriting of his youngest son and Elrond had to close his eyes briefly as he gave thanks to the Valar.

_Lord Erestor_

_I did not know what else to do with this so I have sent it to Imladris. It is the custom of the Rohirrim to display their medals above their family's hearth beside the collected honors earned by their forbearers. I, however, have no family to speak of._

Elrond shut his eyes again, wincing at the sting of Estel's casual words. Silently Glorfindel slipped into the room, followed by Erestor. Legolas sensed that it should be a more private moment, though he couldn't quite bring himself to leave. He walked over to the large bay window and peered out into the starlit blackness over Rivendell.

_I thought perhaps that you might place it with the other relics and heirlooms of Númenór. If I was to keep it I am sure that it would get lost or misplaced, and I do not wish to dishonor the circumstance of its giving by having that happen. It is the medal of the Gilded Horse, awarded for services rendered above and beyond the call of duty. The inscription reads, "For instigating the Battle of the Broken Dam during the Midwinter War, Year 448 of The Mark."_

_Do not think too much on this honor, however. I served primarily as a healer during this war, which was fought in less than a fortnight and lasted only two battles. However, King Thengal believes that a healer who can swing a sword at need and has a bit of uncanny luck is worth decorating and I had no choice but to humbly accept the honor._

Elrond couldn't help the small smile of paternal pride as he shook his head—_Typical Estel!_

_To those who may inquire, please inform them that I am well. To those who gifted me my bow and quiver, please send my apologies. They had to be left behind on the battlefield in the White Mountains. I remain forever in your debt for this service._

_Humbly yours,_

_Strider, of the Dúnedain_

Elrond's gaze drifted off and the letter loosened in his grip.

"Estel has been to war," he said to everyone and no one. "And has returned decorated by the Rohirrim." Elrond then looked to Erestor, who was doing his best not to look dreadfully out of place. "He wants you to put the medallion with the rest of the heirlooms of Númenór."

"That is why he sent a package to me?" Erestor asked.

"So it says here in his letter," Elrond explained, "which he addressed to you."

Erestor's jaw dropped slightly in surprise. Elrond's response was to hand him the letter. He blinked a few times, letter in hand, to be sure that he wasn't seeing things. Then he began to read, with Glorfindel hovering over his shoulder. Legolas had turned away from his window and had taken the Medallion from Elrond. He was inspecting it for himself in the glowing lamplight.

"You had an argument with Estel wherein he perceived great hurt," Erestor said when he was done. His tone restrained his indignation but those present who knew him well could easily glean it from him. "Yet how does that give him the right to constantly wound us so? Need his letters be so casually cruel?"

"It was not Estel's intent to be cruel," Glorfindel told his friend. "Merely formal, for he believes that he is addressing strangers now, and requesting favors of them."

"Let me see that!" Legolas demanded. Glorfindel took the parchment from Erestor and handed it to the prince, exchanging it for the medallion.

"An exquisite piece of craftsmanship," Glorfindel appraised as he inspected the detail work.

"Indeed," Erestor agreed. "Either Rohan has plenty of gold and craft to spare, or this is one of their highest honors."

"We should do as he requests," said Elrond, "and keep the award here in Imladris."

"Yet to keep the medallion in some rarely visited trophy room only to be seen by those who come by to dust the trinkets of Númenór?" Glorfindel asked. "Estel's honor should be worth more than that."

"I agree," Erestor voiced.

"I know the twins have been decorated by the Dúnedain before," Legolas voiced, "and even by my father. They keep such things in the suite they share, mounted on their walls. Perhaps we should put Estel's award in his chamber?"

"No one else would see it there," Glorfindel pointed out.

"Erestor," Elrond spoke in a commanding voice, and all eyes snapped to him. "Commission a plaque on which to mount this." He took the medallion from Legolas's idle hand. "See to it that the translation is inscribed—including the date in the reckoning of our calendar, and that it was gifted to Estel."

"Very good, hir-nin," Erestor replied, taking the medallion from Elrond.

"But where shall we put it?" Glorfindel asked.

Elrond smiled a seemingly genuine smile. "Estel stated that it is tradition to display such things above the family hearth. I see no reason why we should not do just that. Find a place of prominence for it, Erestor, in the Hall of Fire."

The three other elves returned the smile whole-heartedly. Erestor's face nearly shown with glee as he bowed slightly and took his leave. No doubt he would begin preparations for this task immediately.

"What of the Lady Gilraen?" Glorfindel then asked.

"Send a rider to the Dúnedain camp at first light," Elrond instructed. "And prepare her usual room, for no doubt she will wish to stay for a time."

"I'll go," Legolas volunteered.

"I think not, good prince," Glorfindel declined with an almost fatherly chuckle. "You've just come from ten days hard riding. You're going to eat your dinner and then retire for the evening, and even if you _are _ready to ride in the morning, I highly doubt that your horse will be."

"Nine days," Legolas corrected meekly. "I made the ride in nine full days."

"Congratulations!" Glorfindel intoned. "That has to be a personal best for you. However, it doesn't change the fact that you will not be riding tomorrow."

"Yes, hir-nin Glorfindel," Legolas acquiesced at length.

"You may eat the dinner Glorfindel has provided for you here," Elrond offered. "Then if you feel up to it, you may join us in the Hall of Fire. I believe Lindir has composed a new song in tribute to Estel."

"Thank you, Lord Elrond."

The two elf lords then exited the study, leaving the prince to his meal in peace. They were bound for the Hall of Fire, where all of Imladris was gathered to celebrate the anniversary of Estel's birth, even though the man himself was absent.

After Elrond and Glorfindel departed Legolas moved his seat to the floor so that he may better eat his meal. He was not so presumptuous as to sit at Lord Elrond's desk, even though the elf-lord truly would not mind if he did so. With the study door being left open, Legolas ceased his movements and strained his ears. Finally the faintest of sounds reached him, and he smiled. He recognized the Lindë-Estel, the Song of Hope that Glorfindel had written with Lindir for the feast that celebrated Estel's coming of age seven years ago tonight.

"Happy birthday, mellonin," Legolas whispered. "Wherever you are."

* * *

"Estel has done well for himself." The Lady Gilraen was standing beside Elrond in the Hall of Fire, admiring the plaque by the hearth that held the golden horse head medallion.

"So it would seem."

Gilraen frowned. "You don't think so?"

Elrond sighed. "This honor Rohan has bestowed upon him tells us that he has been to war. The Rohirrim only fight against two foes: the orcs of Mordor and the men of Dunland. Neither has Estel been matched against before."

"The rangers are no strangers to orcs."

"Not to goblins, perhaps," Elrond allowed. "But those fiends of the mountains of the north are not orcs of Mordor. Those are taller, broader, deadlier foes. They do not fight for their own evil designs, but their orders come from the Enemy himself. Every blade they wield, every blow they deliver, is done in His name. You will not find a deadlier foe in all of Middle Earth than an army of Mordor."

"You paint a depressing picture, my Lord."

"I speak only of what I know, Lady Gilraen."

Gilraen turned to face him.

"But what do we really know?" She asked him. "Estel has seen battle in the South. That is either with these fell beasts that you describe, or with the Dunlanders, the ancient enemy of the people of the Mark. The specific details are hidden from us, left to mere speculation."

"Yet it is enough," said Elrond, eyes fixed on the plaque. "We know that Estel has seen a war. He has served as a healer, and then at need, as a soldier."

"And has prevailed," Gilraen added. "The Rohirrim honor him for it."

"Estel has the makings of a gifted healer and an exceptional warrior," Elrond admitted, though his voice held an odd quality that Gilraen couldn't place. "From his correspondence, it appears as though he has offered himself up to the Rohirrim as the former, and yet, if he feels that if it is warranted, he will enter the field of battle just the same. Even if it means defying orders."

Gilraen was confused. "My Lord?"

Elrond sighed and closed his eyes briefly, momentarily standing in another time and place.

"I was in Estel's position, long ago, during another war. I was to be a healer only, but in the end I saw that a healer's job is fruitless if there is no one left alive to heal. I grabbed a sword and I followed my King's soldiers into battle. Gil-Galad was furious, but in the end he could not rebuke me. If the enemy has broken through, if the need is truly dire, then every non-combatant must grab a sword, lest the die upon them. Such is the deadly fortune of war."

"And you perceive that Estel has seen such war?" Gilraen asked wide-eyed.

"I do not know," Elrond confessed, and his voice was pained. "I cannot see. I can only hope that Estel's first battle in the south was not fought with such need."

Gilraen's expression softened in understanding.

"You do not wish for him to experience what you experienced," she concluded. Elrond turned to face her at last. "You cannot bear the thought of Estel living through trials so similar to yours."

"I have seen a hopeless war. I wish that fate on no one."

Gilraen smiled fondly. "You are a good father, Elrond. I shall never be able to thank you enough for what you have done for my son… for _our_ son."

"Am I?" Elrond asked her, almost bitterly. "What kind of father allows his son to leave under such duress? What kind of father cares more for his son's destiny than his well-being?"

"The same father who has the courage to confess his fears to that son's mother, even thought they share no bonds save those forged by their shared child."

"I do not deserve your forgiveness, my Lady," Elrond pronounced.

"You did not need to ask it," Gilraen countered. "I have spent the past seven years getting to know the man you raised, and I am proud of him. Arathorn would be proud of him. Lament the cruelty of destiny, my Lord, but do not regret your choices concerning Estel. I have found that I cannot hold them against you."

"Will your opinion change, my Lady, if Estel never returns from Rohan?"

Gilraen could not answer. She directed her gaze to the floor for an extended moment. Then she looked up again, and rested her eyes on the plaque.

"Our son is the last hope for Middle Earth, though I would die a thousand deaths to take that burden from him. If we do not believe in him, then we do not believe in victory, and I _want_ victory, Elrond. For my people, for Arathorn, and for Middle Earth."

"Aragorn is destined for that victory, yet fate has not bound him to it. We shall have to see which proves the stronger master."

"It's fate," Gilraen declared with sad finality. "It has always been fate. So much ugly death has happened because of fate."

"Yet not even Fate can defeat Hope. Only despair can do that."

Gilraen was still staring at the medallion Aragorn had earned.

"Do you think he is despairing, Elrond?"

Elrond's eyes joined Gilraen's in their study of the horse's head medallion.

"He is adapting," Elrond spoke at length. "He is finding a way to survive. As long as he does that, then there is still cause to hope."

Gilraen smiled faintly, accepting Elrond's words for truth.

She did not bother to remind him that he did not answer her question.

* * *

Five nights after Estel's birthday feast the twins finally crossed the Bruinen into Imladris. The night watch alerted the Last Homely House, and Elrond, Glorfindel, and Erestor turned out to greet them.

"Welcome home, my sons," Elrond greeted them. His well-trained eyes scanned them quickly in search of signs of injury and he grinned all the more broadly when he did not find any.

"Mae govannen, ada," Elladan greeted tiredly.

"You did not send us word or your arrival," Erestor chastised slightly as the twins' horses were led away.

"That is because our decision to leave was rather sudden," Elrohir informed them.

"Well come inside," Elrond directed. "We can discuss your reasons for leaving Lothlórien after you freshen up."

"That is well, ada," Elladan agreed. "A nice hot bath sounds wonderful right about now."

"Indeed," Glorfindel agreed as he led the way. Erestor rolled his eyes as Elladan punched the Vanyar lightly in the back, upsetting his step.

"Do not fault Glorfindel for speaking the truth, Dan," Elrohir admonished his brother.

"Wait just a minute!" Elladan protested. "I've ridden just as long and as hard as you. If I stink of horse then it is no worse than you."

"Indeed," Glorfindel echoed.

"Watch it, Vanyar," Elrohir warned. "We outnumber you two to one."

"Hardly. With Erestor here we have you matched."

"What Erestor?" Elrond asked, his eyes alit with the smile on his face.

Glorfindel glanced around and saw that indeed Erestor had vanished. He then muttered a string of Dwarfish curses that sounded suspiciously like 'lousy no-good stealthy elf-scout' that caused Elrond to arch an amused eyebrow before Elladan interrupted, saying:

"You see, Glorfindel. You stand alone."

Two identical elves then marched forward as one down the hallway, hands creeping out in front of them and feral grins on their faces. Glorfindel suddenly found himself fearing of death by tickling when a voice called out from the staircase:

"Not alone!"

Four heads snapped around to see Legolas quickly descending the stairs. He leapt the last few and walked nonchalantly over to Glorfindel's side.

"Ah ha! Saved by the prince of Mirkwood."

"We can still take them," Elladan told his brother. Elrohir nodded. They continued to advance menacingly on the pair of fair-haired elves.

"Indeed you may," Elrond called out. "But your fiendish schemes can wait until after you've bathed."

Then two identically childish and disappointed Elven voices whined:

"_AAAA-DAA!_"

Legolas and Glorfindel merely laughed.

* * *

Legolas sat on a bench in one of Imladris's infamous gardens. It was a bright and cheerful sunny day and Legolas was enjoying it. He was returning to Mirkwood the following dawn, and wanted to take full advantage of the peacefulness of Rivendell before he departed.

Well, of whatever peace he could find with the twin terrors of Elrond home at last.

And speak of the devils…

"Here you are mellonin!" Elladan's voice. Legolas could tell.

"Elladan and I have been looking all over for you." _Bingo!_

Legolas turned in his seat to see the twins approach the bench.

"And now you've found me," Legolas stated plainly, smirking. Then he stood from the bench. "What can I do for you?"

"Are you still planning on leaving tomorrow?" Asked Elladan.

Legolas nodded. "At first light. It is a ten day journey back to Mirkwood, and already I have lingered here too long."

"Do things really go as ill for Mirkwood as they say?" Elrohir asked.

Once again Legolas nodded. "The spiders have multiplied. They have not been seen in such large numbers since before the Five Armies. I am needed home."

"Do you need friends?" Elladan asked.

Legolas blinked in surprise. "Are you offering?"

"You stayed with us in our time of need," said Elrohir. "Now we wish to do the same for you."

"We want to accompany you back to Mirkwood," Elladan added. "If you'll have us."

"What say you, Legolas?" Elrohir followed.

"What does your adar say?" Legolas returned.

"Ada gave us his blessing," Elrohir told him.

"And Glorfindel has assured that the patrols can spare us at least until summer," Elladan added.

Legolas smiled, perhaps his warmest, most sincere smile since he learned of Estel's departure.

"Then I say, let's kill some spiders."

The twins broke into identical grins, and soon were laughing. The three joined their arms together, forming a circle.

"We'll send the vermin running," Elrohir declared.

"If we do not squish them first," Elladan amended.

"Make your preparations," Legolas informed them. "We ride for Mirkwood at dawn."

The twins nodded and dropped their arms. Then with those same identical grins they turned tails and ran back towards the house, most likely to inform Lord Elrond of their immanent departure and to prepare for the journey and battles ahead.

Legolas watched them until they disappeared from sight. Then he sat back down on the bench as the sun began to set. It was a warm spring day, and clear. Already Isil could be seen, even though Anor had not fully retired for the day.

Legolas stayed in the peace and tranquility of the gardens until nightfall, allowing the magic of Rivendell to soothe his troubled spirit. The twins would be accompanying him to Mirkwood, and that was well. It would keep them out of trouble, and out of the mountains where they would hunt the fell creatures of the enemy that stole their mother from them. They would find purpose in Mirkwood, and so would he.

Legolas looked up in time to see the Gil-Estel begin the nightly trek across the sky.

"I've got the twins," he said to the star of Eärendil. "You must watch over Estel."

* * *

**Translations:**

_Gwadur-nin_: my brother

_Vala_: an individual of the Valar

_Daernaneth/daernana_: grandmother/grandma

_Daeradar/daerada_: grandfather/granddad

_Mellon iaur_: old friend

_Adan/edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race

_Im tira lle meleth-nin_: I miss you (lit: I look towards you) my love.

_Mellonin: _my friend.

_Coirë_: The calendar of Rivendell divides the year into approximately six months (more like seasons). Tolkien records that Aragorn was born on 1 March, or according to the elves, the 29th day of the "month" of Coirë, Quenyan for "stirring" and akin to "early spring."

_Noro lim, Tathren! Noro lim!_: Sindarin. Ride on, Tathren (Sindarin for 'Willow')! Ride on!

_Hir-nin_: my lord

_Lindë-Estel_: Quenya. Song (of) Hope.

_Mae govannen_: well met

_Adar/ada_: father/dad

**Notes:**

To clarify the elves a bit, with examples:

There are 3 different types of elves: Vanyar (Glorfindel), Noldor (Elrond), and Teleri (Legolas). All 3 types awoke together in the far east of Middle Earth but were then invited to go to Valinor.

The Vanyar went to Valinor and never left (except Glorfindel, but that's another story I haven't written yet). The Noldor went to Valinor but then many of them returned to Middle Earth, either in pursuit of Morgoth (Fëanor and his followers) or in pursuit of those in pursuit of Morgoth (Galadriel and her brothers, etc). By this time of the Third Age most of the Noldor have returned to Valinor, with the exception of the small contingents living in Rivendell and Lindon, and then there's Galadriel in Lothlórien.

The Teleri are a bit tricky. They break down as follows:

_Falmari_: little-used name for Telerin elves that made the journey to Valinor.

_Moriquendi_: name for Telerin elves that refused to go to Valinor or who fell away on the Great Journey and thus never saw the light of the Two Trees. Of the _Moriquendi_ there are the following divisions:

Avari: elves that refused to go. They're probably still living in the far east of Middle Earth somewhere.

Sindar: elves that made it all the way to Beleriand before deciding not to go to Valinor. They lived in Doriath under King Elwë (Elu Thingol) or with Círdan at the Havens.

Silvan: elves that turned away east of the Misty Mountains. They were the original settlers of Mirkwood and Lothlórien.

Nandor: Silvan elves that eventually crossed the Misty Mountains and made it all the way to Beleriand to eventually become the Green Elves or be counted as part of Thingol's folk.

See the notes in chapter 2 (The elves react) for more info.

If you forget the breakdown of Ranger companies, see the notes in chapter 5: Finding Hope.


	12. Ch 8: In his Majesty's service

_Summer, 2958  
Rohan_

Aragorn sat outside, reclining against a pine tree in the middle of the fields just outside of Strathcomb. He came here often during his recovery, the meager shade of this stunted, nearly branchless evergreen provided a welcome setting for him to fletch arrows; the deft finger movements required acting as adequate physical therapy. This was the only tree that managed to survive outside the village proper, if indeed you could call it that. Somehow Aragorn took heart in the evergreen's struggle, its quest to defy the odds so far away from home striking chords with him. He kept its company for hours, never quite allowing himself to ponder what Legolas would think of his sudden attachment to a tree.

There were a lot of things Aragorn wasn't allowing himself to ponder these days.

Once more the afternoon found him seated here, slowly fletching arrows as a cool breeze drifted over the plains of Rohan and lofted a few errant locks of his hair. No longer did he wear it tied back in the plaited style of the elves. Now it was brushed through and hung long and free in the style of the men of Rohan. It fell now to the small of his back, and somewhere on his to-do list was to have the ends cut off. Perhaps the next time he was in Edoras…

Aragorn wasn't terribly worried about it, even as the wind picked up and tossed a few strands before his eyes. He simply replaced them behind one ear with a casual brush of his hand, and went back to the slow yet steady task of fletching arrows for the men of Folca's éored. While his ankle had long-since healed, he still wasn't quite as capable with his left hand. His grip wasn't quite as sure and his finger movements weren't quite as deft as they ought to be. He had regained his arm strength, however, so his ability to aim and fire a bow had mercifully returned to him; and his right arm was now so used to compensating for the absence of his left in everyday tasks that the muscles had built up enough so as to afford him no troubles as he swung his hand-and-a-half broadsword with just his right arm.

Whether or not Aragorn would regain complete dexterity remained yet to be seen, but he was hopeful. Especially since he had recovered enough to return to a normal two-handed life, which was a great burden off his shoulders. His usefulness to his new family hadn't run out, and Aragorn had not known what to do if that fate had come to pass. They had been so kind to him, and the only semblance of restitution he had was that he was able to help Lindewyn. If he could no longer fulfill his duties to her…

Yet as of right now, Aragorn did not have to worry about such things. The only burdens he was currently suffering through were the added time it takes for him to lace his boots and to fletch arrows for commission. He sat now beneath the tree on top of a gentle hill within sight of the homestead on the outskirts of Strathcomb that he shared with Lindewyn, fletching arrows at his own slow pace, and enjoying one of the milder days of summer.

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn started slightly at the shout of his name, but recovered quickly. He glanced back down the hill and smiled when he saw Lindewyn approaching. She maneuvered quickly up the gentle incline with the walking stick Aragorn had fashioned for her when he was still unable to walk without pain. Lindewyn had ordered him not to move from bed, of course, and Aragorn ahd found—to his surprise—that he did not have the will to defy her. So instead he occupied his time in other ways and before Folca had departed once more for Edoras he bade him to find a suitable branch. Lindewyn had proven herself strong enough with the cane and he had thought that she might try the staff next to increase her mobility outside in the uneven streets and fields of Strathcomb. It kept him from complaining about being bedridden and enabled him to still be of service to her, which perhaps he valued more.

Aragorn smiled as he watched her climb the hill. She enjoyed her newfound mobility greatly, and as often as she dared, she dragged Thorongil on walks through the township or across brief stretches of countryside. His greatest reward was Lindewyn's exuberance. She had learned to use the staff well, and her childlike delight in it showed no signs of abating.

"Thorongil," she spoke again when she had nearly reached him.

Aragorn cast the half-finished arrow aside and stood to greet her. "Good afternoon, Lindewyn," he said with an easy smile.

"I thought this was where you'd be."

"I wanted to enjoy the beauty of the day."

"Of course you did, my Lord," Lindewyn replied with laughing sarcasm. "You simply wanted to survey the majesty of the Mark in summer, and it had nothing to do with your exaggerated love of solitude."

"You have found me, have you not?" Aragorn answered. "Had I wished to hide from you then rest assured I would have succeeded."

"You do not wish to be hidden," Lindewyn told him sagely. Then her voice lowered. "Only alone."

"My dear Lindewyn, you are far too serious for your own good."

Lindewyn smiled shyly at that.

"And besides," Aragorn continued. "I could never be alone in your home. My mornings and my evenings are completely yours."

Lindewyn's smile broadened as her blush deepened. She demurred and looked aside, unable to hold his gaze.

"Now to what excuse can I give thanks for the pleasure of your company?"

"Oh!" Lindewyn recovered her wits quickly. She had come to him on an errand! "I meant to tell you milord that my brother has returned again from Edoras. One of the village boys rode in with a message from him. He summons us both to his homestead for dinner this evening."

Aragorn smiled, though his expression turned thoughtful.

"I wonder as to the occasion…"

"The message boy did not say. Perhaps he simply wishes for the pleasure of our company?"

"Perhaps…"

"Well you can ask him personally when we arrive," Lindewyn interrupted Aragorn's mini-reverie. "Until then you should come inside. We must get ready."

Lindewyn waited patiently while Aragorn gathered his things. He had fully fletched seven arrows in the time that he sat upon the hill. These he gathered and tied together with a scrap of leather thong. The remaining shafts, feathers, arrowheads, and binding materials he collected into the large sack he had carried them in. This he slung over one shoulder and then slowly allowed Lindewyn to lead the way back towards the house.

Once inside, Aragorn deposited the arrows—completed and otherwise—in his bedroom. Then he reached into the trunk at the foot of the bed and removed a clean tunic and a fresh pair of leggings; varying shades of brown that matched nicely together, they were one of the first things he bought in Rohan. They were of a plainer make with plainer cloth and thread and didn't mark him as a (well-to-do) foreigner the way his Elvish clothes had served to do. No, he dressed as a man of Rohan now, casually and unassuming, just another generic face in the crowd.

Aragorn sorely regretted that he didn't have an opportunity to bathe—the river was too far for such short notice. There was nothing to be done about it though, so Aragorn simply stripped out of his current clothes and changed into the fresh ones. It took him longer than he liked to remove and then replace his boots, but Aragorn was used to that by now and endured it with only mild chagrin.

Finally fully dressed, Aragorn took a brush to his overly long hair. He only had a small, hand-held looking glass in his room, and he didn't use it often. Lindewyn would be the final judge if his hair would pass inspection, and so he sat cross-legged atop his bed, trying his best to look presentable.

He was nearly finished when he heard Lindewyn knock.

"Enter!"

"Thorongil, when are you going to remember not to put your boots on the bed?"

Aragorn blushed slightly, chastised, and swung his booted feet over the side of the bed and off the covers. Then he noticed that Lindewyn had also changed her clothes. Instead of the slightly soiled, slightly ratty garb she wore when working in the vegetable garden she was now dressed in a modest dress of dark green, a truly flattering color for her. Her hair was pulled back into a simple braid and she wore a sheepskin shawl about her shoulders. She was obviously ready to go and was now simply waiting on him.

"How do I look?" Aragorn asked, standing up and turning to face her.

"Fine," she assured him. "Now we should be going. I have not seen the children in so long, and I would like to get there early enough to enjoy their company before my brother sends them off to bed."

Aragorn afforded himself a small smile at the though. Folca's son was three years old, bright-eyed and inquisitive. He was well behaved enough in front of company—especially when that company was a certain ex-ranger who could sing songs to him in Elvish. And Bretta… the little girl he birthed…

Sweet Eru! That was a year ago! A year ago exactly!

Suddenly he felt a hand on his arm. He blinked back to awareness to see Lindewyn's curious and concerned eyes resting on him. That's when he realized how pale he was, and how weak he had gone at the knees.

"Today is little Bretta's birthday…" He breathed.

Lindewyn smiled. "That must be the answer to the riddle," she declared. "We have been summoned forth for a birthday feast!" She smiled so delightedly that Aragorn couldn't help but return the gesture. Bretta's child had survived to be named in honor of her mother, and now it was time to celebrate the anniversary of that harrowing birth. "Let us leave then, Thorongil," Lindewyn egged him on, pulling him slightly by the arm she held. "My niece awaits!"

Helpless, Aragorn allowed himself to be led by the hand by an awkwardly gaited Lindewyn, who grabbed her cane in her free hand and scurried over to the front door with a dazed Thorongil in tow.

Aragorn recovered his wits soon enough, however. It was a lot to take in—Bretta will have been dead died a year ago tomorrow, the first life he failed to save in Rohan. But her daughter, who bears her name, is tonight celebrating her first birthday, the first life he chanced to save. In his heart, he knew that the girl's mother was smiling down upon the happy family from beyond the void, for her daughter was in good care, and at last in death she had been reunited with her husband. Thus Aragorn allowed Lindewyn's good cheer to be catching, and as he helped Lindewyn onto Ulmafan's back, he too was all smiles in anticipation of a night of feasting and revelry.

While Lindewyn was getting better walking with the staff, and her endurance had improved from the increased exercise, Folca's home was still on the entire other side of the small township. The walk there would have been fine, but the walk back, after a tiring evening of feasting and celebration, would have been a bit much to ask of Lindewyn, especially in the dark. Thus the custom for dining out was for Lindewyn to ride on Ulmafan's back as Thorongil led them to their destination. Lindewyn did not protest this arrangement, for she trusted Thorongil completely when it came to matters of her health. After all, it is because of him that she is able to pay visits to her brother's family in the first place.

Aragorn, for his part, forcibly kept his thoughts only on Lindewyn in her unbridled joy at the simplest of things, such as traversing the town to visit family, and on Folca, who no doubt rode all day and night in order to spend see his baby niece on her birthday, and on Folca's lovely wife Hilde, who took the time out of running a household and raising two small children to look in on Lindewyn every day when he was away at war. He thought of Bretta, who would undoubtedly grow to be as strong and as beautiful as her mother, and of Folca's son Éomund, the apple of his father's eye. As Aragorn led Ulmafan through the center of town to the other side of the township where Folca's house stood, he staunchly refused to contemplate the fact that he has been in exile in Rohan for an entire year. After all, it's been more than a year since that fateful conversation with Elrond, and he had refused to mark that anniversary, too.

"Auntie Lindy! Auntie Lindy!" And a blond haired, brown eyed bundle of arms, legs, and energy came storming out of the front door of Folca's house and waddled quickly in the way that three year olds do towards the newcomers. He was followed quickly by Hilde.

"Hang on there, you little rascal! Give your auntie Lindewyn a chance to get here first!" She caught up to her son just as he reached Ulmafan. Aragorn reached up and helped to ease Lindewyn to the ground as Hilde scooped Éomund up in her arms. The toddler reached out for his aunt as soon as Lindewyn had regained her feet beneath her.

"Hello my little warrior!" Lindewyn cooed as she readily accepted the grabby little boy in her arms. "Have you been minding your mother well?"

"Uh huh," Éomund nodded seriously. "Fæder bought me an eoh ceorfan at Edoras," he added in a perfectly strung mix of Westron and Rohirric. "Come see!"

"Fæder min bycgan an eoh ceorfan æt Edoras," Lindewyn corrected with a smile.

"Yes he did," Éomund reiterated with a nod. Then he purposefully squirmed and Lindewyn set him down. "Come see! Come see!"

"All right, all right!" Lindewyn acquiesced (though it wouldn't have taken much convincing). She made sure to grab her cane from its secured spot on Ulmafan's saddle before consenting to be dragged by the hand into the house, Éomund keeping up his bilingual babbling all the while. Aragorn and Hilde looked on with smiling eyes and faint laughs at the boy's antics.

"He seems bigger every time I see him," Aragorn observed.

Hilde nodded beside him. "My mother thinks he will grow to surpass his father."

"A son's proudest day."

"And a father's saddest."

Aragorn's smile fell slightly as memories assaulted him. He was sixteen when his height surpassed Erestor's, who as far as Noldor go could be considered of average stature. Elrond has an inch on his seneschal, and Aragorn had to wait over a year to attain that final teenaged growth spurt. It was the summer after he turned seventeen that Estel found that he could look his ada straight in the eye. The twins stand nearly half and inch taller than their father, and Elrond always blamed that fact on Celebrían's blood, for that put them at just shy of eye level with Galadriel and an inch below Celeborn. When Aragorn was finally heralded as an adult by the standards of his race, his height fell evenly between Elrond and the twins. Glorfindel claimed that he was of equal height to Arathorn, and so all of Imladris had ruefully admitted that little Estel had grown up. Of course, he still had to tilt his head back to stare into the face of the Vanyar March Warden of Imladris, but Erestor always claimed that the Valar increased his height when they sent him back across the sea—if for no other reason than to make it easier for him to look down on his fellow elf. Yes, height jokes were often had around Imladris when elflings (and fostered edain) were growing up, and Aragorn was suddenly pained to be thusly reminded.

"All children must grow up sometime…" He mused at long last.

Hilde seemed thoughtful for a moment, then she smiled. "Hurry along, master Thorongil," she said. "Dinner is waiting." With another, dismissive smile, she followed finally into the house, leaving Aragorn alone to tend to Ulmafan. With a heavy sigh he saw to removing her saddle.

* * *

"So I don't have much time, I'm afraid," Folca lamented. He was seated beside his wife, and across from Lindewyn, who sat next to Aragorn at a picnic table of sorts out behind the house. It was such a nice day that Hilde decided they should dine outside and enjoy the remains of it. Now the four adults were finishing off the remains of the birthday feast.

Bretta was sleeping in a basket in the long shadow of the table cast by the falling summer sun and Éomund was busying himself making war with little wooden soldiers a few paces away. His childlike sound effects occasionally drifted into the after-dinner conversation.

"When will you be returning to Edoras?" Lindewyn asked.

"Tomorrow, unfortunately," Folca answered. "Negotiations begin in four days' time."

"How often does the King treat with dignitaries from Dol Amroth?" Aragorn asked, ever curious still about the inner workings of his new homeland.

"The current trade agreements have been in place since the time of my grandfather," Folca answered. "I suppose that now they have become obsolete. Prince Adrahil has sent his best negotiators."

"Do we know what they're negotiating for?" Aragorn pressed.

"That, my friend," Folca replied with a grin, "is privileged information."

"But of course."

Just then Bretta started fussing. Hilde stood up to tend to her.

"I'll get her, Hilde," Lindewyn volunteered, standing as well.

Hilde smiled. "Thank you, Lindewyn. That'll give me the chance to clean up after our men."

Folca laughed, Lindewyn blushed, and Aragorn shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Right then," Hilde grinned and disappeared into the house.

Lindewyn smiled thinly and made her way to where Bretta's fusses were threatening to grow into an outright tantrum. She picked the baby up and cooed softly to her, jiggling her slightly in the way that women hold babies and singing softly some Rohirric lullaby that Aragorn couldn't quite make out.

"I can't believe it's been a year…" Folca mused wistfully when he and Aragorn were alone at the table. Aragorn assumed he was referring to the loss of his beloved sister, and so stayed silent. "The harvest will begin soon, this year's honey is already being gathered to produce next year's mead, and my horse has a few new gray hairs."

"Milord?" Of course, Aragorn could always be wrong…

"A purple sunset," Folca continued. "According to the sky this night, all is well with the world. Though I fear that the day-ball lies. It was a magnificent sunset much like this one the evening my sister died."

Aragorn turned his gaze respectfully away, not willing to meet Folca's eyes. The discomfort of his position weighed awkwardly on his shoulders.

"Yet this land is fertile still," Folca went on. "The Riddermark has endured at last a year of plenty. Even though the threat of Black Land grows, and news out of Gondor is grim. Men still live and bleed for this country—I know, I lead them. I bury them. I fear that the Great War will come within my lifetime, yet my fear is greater still that my son will get fight in it. Oh what a world to birth a child into! The twilight of our age is upon us, and lo! The sun sets in hues of purple and gold."

Folca grimaced then, and swatted a hand dismissively though the air as though that act alone would dispel the depressing thoughts of the evening—or perhaps even make them untrue. Aragorn shifted in his seat, uncomfortably avoiding Folca's eyes. Thankfully Lindewyn had moved Bretta over to where Éomund was playing, and the three of them were safely out of earshot.

"Oh, don't listen to me…" Folca added with a heavy, dismissive sigh. "Just the musings of a tired man, old beyond his years and who's had a bit to much to drink. This is a night for celebrations, not lamentations of things we cannot change."

"Far be it for me to guess at the will of the Valar," Aragorn haphazardly offered at last, "for the plans of Ilúvatar are beyond even their sights at times. But I do believe one thing: nothing happens in this world without purpose, even if we cannot grasp it now."

"You speak like the Gray Pilgrim," Folca observed.

"That I will choose to take as a compliment, my Lord Folca," Aragorn replied with a crooked smile. Personally he found his phrase to be much too straightforward to remind anyone of Gandalf.

"There are those that claim he can predict the future," said Folca. "Some say that he is an agent of the Enemy, trying to confuse us. Others say that he was once an elf, cursed to walk the earth in the guise of a man to make up for past misdeeds."

"I don't know about that," Aragorn managed to say with a straight face. "I have heard only that he is wise, and that it is in one's best interests to heed his counsels."

"Well whatever his story may be, I know that he has aided our country in the past. It was he who first alerted us to the orc presence in the White Mountains." Aragorn's face darkened noticeably at the mere prelude of mention of that dread battle. "And he has helped to foster the continuing good relations with Gondor."

"Will he be helping with the negotiations with Dol Amroth?"

"Alas, no," Folca replied. "When he left us he rode for Gondor, but our ambassador there tells that he left that kingdom some time ago. One can only guess at his current whereabouts."

"Mithrandir journeys far and wide," Aragorn observed. "I doubt even his horse knows his direction at times."

Folca nodded, though he seemed distracted suddenly by some distant thought.

"He is known in Gondor by that name," he said at length.

"Indeed, he has many names," Aragorn replied, at a loss as to Folca's meaning.

"Yes and no," Folca replied. "Gandalf I have heard him called, the Gray Pilgrim by our folklore. Yet I have been told that 'Mithrandir' is simply that name in the Elven tongue."

"It is true," Aragorn verified. "Mithrandir is a direct translation of 'Gray Wanderer,' or 'Pilgrim' as you call him."

"I know you are well versed in their songs and stories, Thorongil. Tell me, how well do you speak the tongue of the elves?"

A slight pause.

"Well enough to serve me in my trades and travels in the north," Aragorn answered, his tone guarded. In truth he grew up speaking Sindarin and Quenya as Éomund speaks Westron and Rohirric. The Common Tongue he spoke some, but didn't really practice after his mother left Imladris until he began formally studying it as part of his tutelage and then it came very naturally to him. However, it wasn't in Thorongil's nature to be forthcoming with personal information, because most of the time dwelling on his past was much too painful. Estel he had hoped to leave dead and buried somewhere on the road south so that his memories do not pain Thorongil. Now he was surprised to find (or maybe not all that surprised) that he could not outright lie to Folca, especially with a concept as abstract to one's past as linguistic talent.

"The men of Dol Amroth speak it well," Folca informed him. "It is as a second language to them. Often when dealing with them they will speak to you in Westron and then lean in to converse amongst themselves in Elvish, believing that you do not comprehend them."

"A common enough trick," Aragorn replied. The men of Rohan were known to do the same.

"Indeed," Folca agreed. "But Adrahil has sent dignitaries that speak Rohirric. Now, King Thengal speaks a little Elvish, but not nearly well enough to keep up with the men of Dol Amroth. They speak quickly on purpose, you see, and there is of course their dialect to contend with. And the King won't often be sitting at the negotiation table."

"In that case they hold a covetous edge," said Aragorn, fearing in his heart where this conversation was headed.

"Indeed," Folca agreed. However there was a mischievous glint in his eye and Aragorn knew what he was going to say next before Folca even opened his mouth. "However, if we were to bring someone to the table fluent in the tongue of the Elves, it would level the playing field considerably, would it not?"

Aragorn blinked his eyes slowly and his shoulders sagged a bit. If Folca noticed the sudden look of resignation in Aragorn he did not mention it.

"It certainly would," Aragorn conceded. He tried his best to keep the dejection from showing in his voice.

"Splendid!" Folca exclaimed as though Aragorn had just agreed to what he hasn't even mentioned yet. "On the morrow you will accompany me to Edoras. Together we will offer your services to the King."

"As you wish, Lord Folca."

"Oh, worry not, friend Thorongil," Folca reassured. "It will be fun! Er, well, actually, it will probably be dreadfully boring and monopolize entirely too much of your time, but your country needs you, Thorongil."

"And I am honor-bound to oblige," Aragorn replied.

"Don't sound so distressed," Folca told him with a smile. "There might be another medal in it for you if the negotiations go well."

"Which means that if the negotiations go poorly I may be held accountable," Aragorn pronounced seriously.

"Oh I highly doubt that," Folca reassured him. "You'll just be there to listen in and then report back what the men of Dol Amroth are whispering. The burden of negotiations does not rest on your shoulders."

"I shall be ready to leave tomorrow at daybreak," Aragorn informed his liege lord, trying to drop the subject.

"Good," Folca decreed, "for that's when I shall be heading to your homestead to fetch you. And you need not pack heavily, Thorongil. If your assistance is appropriated then you shall be outfitted with robes bearing the mark of the diplomat."

"Very good, milord," Aragorn acknowledged with a nod. However, he could do nothing to displace the uneasy feeling that hit like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Folca arrived for Thorongil shortly after dawn, just as promised. Aragorn had one traveling pack attached to Ulmafan's saddle, his sword hung at his hip, and the new bow he bought to replace the ones he lost during the battle was slung over one shoulder. The new quiver was attached to the saddle on the opposite side from the pack. A light traveling cloak completed the ensemble.

"I understand your need to keep your sword with you," said Folca. "But why have you also brought your bow? The road to Edoras is safe and well traveled."

"Be that as it may, a bow is always kept within my reach just surely as my sword."

Folca laughed outright. "Suit yourself, then. Come, we have far to travel."

The road to Edoras was indeed safe, and the two travelers didn't encounter anything out of the ordinary. The first night Aragorn managed to shoot a pheasant with his bow, and this served to feed them for the duration of the trip. Never again did Folca question Thorongil about always carrying a bow, as pheasant was a much nicer meal than stale bread, which was all he had brought with him.

The two rode in intervals of silence and small talk. Aragorn did his best to keep the conversation away from such topics as where he had learned Elvish and with whom he'd practiced speaking it. Instead he let Folca fill him in on the current state of diplomatic and militaristic affairs in Rohan. He spoke on affairs of State and of matters of the Crown, imparting all the wisdom he could to Thorongil, who he presumed knew very little about the comings and goings of the Halls of a king.

Yet Folca could not possibly know of Aragorn's upbringing. Every tidbit of information regarding the custom of Meduseld was absorbed, processed, and filtered through Aragorn's own personal knowledge and experience. He has taken instruction from the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, learned of courtly ways from the Eluchil and Lord of the Noldor, been judged for worth by Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin High King, and by Lord Celeborn of Doriath. He has looked King Thranduil in the eye and found acceptance there. The court of King Thengal of Rohan, while foreign, will not prove a challenge to the heir of Isildur.

The only time the conversation strayed into personal subjects was the final night of camping along the road. Folca and Aragorn had pulled off the road and made camp at a rather large outcropping that appeared well used by travelers. Aragorn had built a fire and was reheating what was left of their pheasant while Folca tended to the horses. Now the horses were seen to and Folca sat by the fire as Aragorn continued to hold two pieces of pheasant near the flames skewered on a stick.

"I find it odd that you do not hold the meat directly in the flames," Folca mused. "It cooks the meat much faster."

"I find that flame char mars the taste, milord," Aragorn replied. "We only need to heat the meat, not set it ablaze."

"As you wish, friend Thorongil. It matters not to me and leastways it is not my place to dictate to you when you are the one who killed and prepared our feast for cooking."

They lapsed into silence again as Aragorn finished cooking the meat. When at last he deemed it to be done, he removed both sticks from the heat and handed one over to Folca.

"You're an adequate cook, Thorongil," Folca offered neutrally with a slight head nod as he took his third bit of cooked pheasant.

"I had adequate teachers," Aragorn replied candidly.

"I had an _exceptional_ teacher," Folca interjected. "That does not mean I learned very well."

Aragorn had to chuckle at that.

"Who had the honor of teaching you?" Folca then asked.

Aragorn tensed briefly, but he disguised it by taking another bite of pheasant.

"My tutor," he replied, his tone veiled.

"Your tutor? The one who taught you your letters and numbers also taught you to cook?"

Aragorn grinned thinly. _And history… and geography… and languages… and manners…The list is truly endless._

"Why would your tutor of all people seek to educate you in the culinary arts?" Folca asked in sincere curiosity. Aragorn had to stifle another laugh.

"When I was at last old enough to go on hunting expeditions with my brothers… Well, my tutor did not want me to be poisoned by their cooking, so he intervened."

That set Folca laughing. "And are you a better chef than your brothers?"

"They used to deny it," Aragorn replied, "until they figured out that it was an easy way to shirk the duty themselves."

"And so you became camp cook," Folca concluded.

"I did not much complain," Aragorn told him truthfully. "It meant that my brothers would request my company more often, and their cooking is terribly."

Folca laughed again. "How many brothers have you?"

Aragorn froze at that question. Instantly he thought of Elladan and Elrohir, yet they were _Estel's_ brothers. Not Thorongil's. Thorongil has no family. Thorongil does not have twin brothers in Imladris, nor a brother of his heart who resides in Mirkwood; and he certainly does not have a sister in Lothlórien—a sister by the definition of foster parentage but the other half of his soul through the bonds of love. Thorongil has none of those things.

"Thorongil?"

Aragorn was startled out of the reverie he never meant to take.

Folca's concerned expression melted with a sigh.

"They must be dead," he concluded, his voice oddly serene. "Your family. I know of nothing else that would cause you to stray into such sadness at the mere mention of them."

Aragorn's breath hitched in surprise. He looked down, avoiding Folca's eyes.

"I am truly sorry, Thorongil," Folca said sincerely. "I myself have buried both parents and one sister, but I still have my wife and son, and Lindewyn and little Bretta. And the men of my éored. They are as much my family—as much bound to me in blood— …" Folca cut himself off abruptly, and then his voice trailed off into silence.

"What I mean to say, Thorongil," he continued at last. "Birthright and marriage are not the only dictators of a family. Arlath is of my family. The men of my command are of my family." Folca sighed again, struggling in that masculine way to express his emotions. "You, too, are of my family, Thorongil," he said at last. "Allow us to be yours now. We cannot replace that which you've lost, but you may find life not so lonely."

"Thank you, milord," Aragorn replied, suddenly choked by emotion himself.

"Oh, for Béma's sake Thorongil! Do not ruin the sentiment of the moment with your incessant demurring!"

Aragorn's eyes widened and he looked as though he'd just been slapped. He was about to apologize profusely when he caught the merry twinkle in Folca's eye. He relaxed some then, though he was at a loss for what to say.

"I truly am grateful for all that you've done for me," Aragorn said at last. This time he bravely met Folca's eyes.

"As I said before, you are family," Folca replied.

"But it did not have to be so."

"Because of you my sister got to see that her child would live before she passed into the halls of our fathers. Because of you, I have a beautiful niece to raise as my own daughter. Tell me truly, Thorongil, how else could it have been?"

Aragorn lowered his gaze again. He didn't have an answer to that.

"Whoever taught you humility, Thorongil," Folca added with a laugh, "I do not know whether to thank them profusely or blacken their eye."

Aragorn smiled at the comment, deflection though it was. The two most humble elves east of the Undying Lands are Erestor and Elrond, though thankfully time has lent security to their characters. It was from them, perhaps, that he learned the fine art of acceptance for all things, and elevated the craft into a heartbreaking art form.

"I think I shall turn in," Aragorn declared at length, finally evading the conversation once and for all. "Alert me for my watch."

"Certainly," Folca replied even as Aragorn made ready his bedroll. "Pleasant dreams."

* * *

Folca and Aragorn arrived in Edoras in the early afternoon of the following day. They rode straight through the gates, Folca leading and Aragorn following, until they reached Medusheld. There they dismounted and their horses were taken by groomsmen to the royal stables. Ulmafan nickered slightly in protest at being separated from Aragorn, and he had to reassure her that this was not like last time and he would not be riding forth into battle without her. Folca laughed at Aragorn's predicament (it is rare that the men of Rohan have such issues with their horses) as the two steeds were led away.

At Medusheld Folca bade the door warden to alert king Thengal that he had returned and that he beseeched an audience with his Majesty concerning tomorrow's opening of negotiations with Dol Amroth. A pageboy left to deliver the message and then Folca led Aragorn down a well tended path through a courtyard of sorts towards another building situated behind the Golden Hall. Constructed entirely out of wood with a thatched roof, this three-story complex was where lower echelon staff and visitors are housed, and Folca had a standing room on the second floor.

"We must freshen up a bit first before our audience with the King. While it is no strange thing for those who seek an audience to stink of horse and traveling, it makes a better first impression if one does not."

Folca had a small two-room suite. One room held a table, a few chairs, and a small desk in one corner. The other was barely large enough for a bed, chest of drawers, and small fireplace.

"Bring the spare clothes you packed, Thorongil, but you may leave the rest of your belongings here—especially your weapons. It is not customary to walk about these halls so armed. I will show you to the bathing chambers for this floor."

Folca then disappeared into the bedroom. Aragorn left his bow, quiver, sword, cloak, and bedroll on the small table. His pack he slung over one shoulder just as Folca returned to the sitting room, carrying his own pack.

"Come," he said, leading the way. "Follow me."

Folca led them down the hall to the far end. There was a door there that hung partially opened on its hinges. Folca knocked once for courtesy but no one answered. Then he pushed the door open all the way and revealed the bath chamber, which in design was not wholly unlike the barracks bath house in Imladris, if a bit more rustic. A giant tub, wrought of bronze, was situated against the far wall. It appeared large enough for ten men to bathe comfortably within. A well pump was fixed to one corner, and Folca explained that by a marvel of Gondorian engineering an aqueduct from the Snowbourn River branched off behind Edoras into a network of copper piping that snaked its way underground and into the main buildings of the city to feed pumps like that one. The water was cold, but three large kettles above a long, thin hearth that lined an adjacent wall could be used to heat the bathwater.

A drain sat in the center of the tub that could be plugged with a fitted metal disk framed with cork. Drained water fell down through more pipes and was carried by gravity out of the building and into a man-made flood plane behind the city.

Folca grabbed one of the kettles and placed it in the tub beneath the pump spigot. He then proceeded to fill the kettle.

"There are clean washcloths in that small wicker chest over there, Thorongil," Folca pointed out. "Grab some and bring them here."

Aragorn did as he was told, and brought two washcloths over, one for Folca and one for himself. Then he saw that Folca had added some form of soap to the water and had stopped filling the kettle when it was only halfway full.

"This will have to do for bathing," he said. "We have not the time to fill the tub." Then Folca proceeded to strip completely naked, dunk his washcloth into the cold water, and begin scrubbing himself. Aragorn was a bit taken aback at Folca's blatant lack of modesty. Nudity did not seem to bother Folca, and Aragorn wondered if it was so customary for the men of Rohan to bathe together in communal baths that perhaps all the riders of the Mark held similar feelings. Aragorn had planned on keeping his short under-leggings on, but Folca's way really was the most efficient, and so Aragorn removed that final garment too. A bit more self-conscious than a true son of Rohan, however, Aragorn kept his back to Folca as he bathed.

In this fashion the two men washed away the dirt and grime from their days on the road. Aragorn lamented that he didn't have time to wash his hair, but there was nothing for it. At some point Folca tossed him a clean towel and when his body was clean and dry Aragorn pulled on the fresh change of clothes he brought in his pack.

Aragorn then began lacing his boots in that heartbreakingly slow manner that he must use while Folca emptied the kettle down the tub drain and replaced it on the hearth. Then he threw the soiled washcloths into a bin for such things to await being washed. Folca had dressed and began lacing his own boots just in time for Aragorn to finish his left boot and move onto his right. Folca had both of his own laced before Aragorn was finished.

"Your left hand still pains you?" He asked Aragorn, frowning.

"There is no pain," Aragorn replied. "I'm just not as quick and dexterous as I used to be."

"I thought the healers said that functionality would return to you?"

"And indeed it has," Aragorn announced as he finished lacing the boot at last. "You should have seen me last spring. For a while I had to have Lindewyn lace them for me."

"I am truly sorry, Thorongil," Folca said gravely. "Though that such a thing is your only lasting injury is a marvel. Béma must have blessed your steps."

"I know not, milord," Aragorn answered truthfully. "I can only thank the Valar that I made it through the battle alive."

Folca nodded. "Come now. We don't wish to keep the King waiting."

Folca led Aragorn back down the hallway to his chambers. Aragorn deposited his pack with the soiled clothes in one corner, but Folca then instructed him to leave the clothes in plain sight so that the chambermaids can take them for cleaning and repair. When Aragorn removed the clothes from the pack he also grabbed the only other thing he had packed in there: his hairbrush. He then began to try and tame his too-long locks, regretting deeply that there was not time to wash his hair in the baths. Folca took pity on him, however, and handed him a thin scrap of cloth with which to tie it back with. Aragorn grinned sheepishly as he wrapped the strip about his hair in a loose ponytail. It wasn't the style he was used to wearing whenever he addressed royalty—in fact, his hair had been braided in Elven plaits when last he saw the King, when his medal was awarded. Finally Folca deemed them both ready to meet with the King, and so he led Aragorn down and out of the building, back down the path, and over to Medusheld.

"Greetings, Lord Folca," said the door warden. "His Majesty has been expecting you." They were then shown into the great hall, wherein Folca called out:

"Hail Thengal King!"

They approached the dais and then dropped to one knee in the appropriate courtly bow for the kingdom of Rohan. Thengal raised his hand, signaling for them both to rise. Folca stood and then approached his Majesty, and Thengal stood from his throne and closed the gap between them. The two firmly shook hands, broad smiles on their faces. Aragorn stood where he had risen and observed the exchange from the background.

"It is good to have you back again, Marshal Folca," said the King.

"It is good to be back, Majesty," Folca replied. "You remember Master Thorongil, do you not?"

Aragorn snapped to attention at the mention of his name. It unnerved him slightly that he was referred to with title to the king of Rohan.

"Ah yes," Thengal replied, directing his eyes to Aragorn and giving him a scrutinizing gaze. "This is the young healer from your éored to whom I awarded a medal after the orc conflict in the White Mountains."

"Your Majesty," Aragorn greeted formally, bowing at the waist. Thengal laughed and waved him off.

"Stay," he directed. "You've already bowed once. You need not do it again."

Aragorn nodded his head again, formally. "Yes, Majesty."

King Thengal laughed. "Indeed, he _is_ as polite as you extol," he told Folca, who nodded.

"That he is, my King. Now we come to the point of my hasty visit. My King, I have come to officially offer you Thorongil's services for the duration of the negotiations with Dol Amroth."

King Thengal looked puzzled. "The delegates of Prince Adrahil are not known to cause the need for a healer during negotiations," he said.

Folca laughed. "No, my King," he agreed. "But Thorongil has more applicable skills than just that of healer. He is also fluent in the tongue of the Elves."

The King's eyes alit in sudden understanding. "Ah yes," he said. "That could prove most useful for our interests." The King then turned to face Aragorn, who still hadn't moved from where he stood at attention, arms clasped behind his back. "Is this true, young healer? Are you fluent in the Elvish tongue?"

_Both of them_, Aragorn thought to reply, but then it wouldn't do to be cheeky before the King.

"I am," he answered instead. "My people up north have had many dealings with the Elves. I was schooled in their language since childhood."

"Indeed," the King appraised with a nodding smile. "That could prove most useful… most useful indeed."

"I thought that Thorongil could sit at the negotiation table," Folca explained. "Under the guise as an aide to one of our delegates. He could then translate for us that which the men of Dol Amroth speak amongst themselves in Elvish. After all, they understand our tongue. It would be only fair that we can at last understand theirs."

The King nodded approvingly.

"An excellent idea, Marshal," he declared. Then he turned once more to Aragorn. "Thorongil, you shall spend today being made abreast of the diplomatic proceedings of this nation, and we shall fit you with the robes of a delegate. Tomorrow you shall be presented as an aide to Lord Léod, our senior negotiator. You will follow his direction as he sees fit, but your true task will be to make note of what is said in Elvish. At last we shall sit at the table with our allies on even ground!"

Aragorn bowed slightly. "Yes, Majesty."

Aragorn's eyes then went wide as Thengal suddenly clasped him firmly on the shoulder.

"Good!" The King declared. "Very good." Then he dropped the hand and turned to Folca again. "You will see to it that he gets everything he needs," he directed the Marshal. "By this evening a room will have been appropriated for him."

"Yes, my King," Folca replied. Then he turned to Aragorn. "Come, Thorongil. We have much to do."

* * *

Aragorn spent the rest of the day being outfitted for his new role as a diplomat's aid. He was fitted for a diplomat's robe, which would be ready by the morning. He was shown to where the conference room was, shown the itinerary that would most likely be tossed out the window within the week, shown what parts of Medusheld he was allowed to visit—the Great Hall, the Healing Ward, the library, etc; and which parts he was not, which was just about everywhere else.

The Golden Hall was a sprawling, single-story complex that extended back beyond the original construction and then branched off to the sides as more and more additions were required. The basement level was used for storage only, and nothing was stored in the rafters save spare thatching and roofing materials. Yet still, the high ceilings and spacious rooms were enough to give any man pause, for it was constructed mostly of wood on a stone foundation, though no living trees were used. It was all dead wood, and one errant spark could set the entire place ablaze. It was an impressive feat of architecture that Aragorn found as faulty as he did praise-worthy.

The tour and instruction finally ended in the library, with Aragorn being instructed to read as much as he could of Rohan's history with Dol Amroth, and of its history at the negotiating table. He read of the current standings of trade relations between Rohan and Dol Amroth, Gondor, Dale, and Laketown, as well as the history of military alliances with each nation.

While Rohan can be called a nation of simplistic farmers and stable boys, the evidence here in the library paints quite a different picture. The men of Rohan were highly intelligent, incredibly diligent, and quite creative. They are the way they are—and how they appear to the world, is because they choose to be, and they are damn proud of it, too. Aragorn felt his measure of respect for the people of the Mark grow with every page he turned. He became so engrossed in what he was reading that he completely missed the chime of the dinner bells

It was long since dark and dinner long since over with that Folca came to the library to collect the errant healer-turned-diplomat.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Aragorn nearly jumped out of his seat. He looked up sharply, and then turned around at the desk he was sitting at to find out who had startled him. He smiled tiredly when he saw Folca, and then his eyes took in the fact that it was completely dark outside with the moon high in the sky, and the evening lamps in the library were burning brightly.

"Most likely later than I think it is," he answered with a sigh, closing the tome before him. _The Seafaring History Between Gondor and Dol Amroth_ could wait for another day.

Folca chuckled at Thorongil's deduction.

"Less than one turn of the hourglass before midnight," he informed him.

"Ah. Just as expected." Aragorn stood from the desk, tome in hand.

"Leave that," Folca directed. "The librarians will reshelf it."

"But it's no trouble," Aragorn protested, remembering full well all the times Erestor threatened to skin his socks every time he left a book out of place in Imladris's library.

"If everyone thought like that then the Royal Librarian would be out of a job," Folca informed him. Aragorn was too tired to laugh, so he just shrugged with a small sigh and put the book back on the desk. "Come," Folca continued, "your room is ready and waiting."

Wordlessly Aragorn complied and Folca led him out of the library… out of Medusheld… down the courtyard path and back to the apartment building. Folca explained that the first floor, of course, was for gardeners, stable hands, and other help in Medusheld that didn't rate high enough for quarters there. The second floor was for people like Folca and Thorongil—high-ranking officials from other parts of the nation. Storage was the top floor, along with the servants' quarters for those who tended to this particular building. Meals of course would be served in the Great Hall of Medusheld.

Folca showed Aragorn to his room, which appeared to be an exact replica of Folca's own. Mercifully someone had left a bowl of fresh fruit on the table. Someone must have informed the kitchen staff that Thorongil had been too busy to come to dinner.

"Thank you," Aragorn said to Folca.

"Think nothing of it," Folca dismissed. "You should get some rest. We have to get you into your diplomat's robes for the final fitting just after sunup."

Aragorn nodded tiredly.

"I will see you in the morning, then."

"Verily. Good night, Thorongil."

"Good night Folca."

And Folca left Aragorn to get acquainted with his new room.

Once he was gone, Aragorn locked the door behind him. He stripped into just his under-leggings for bed and found that he was too tired even to curse that his boots took so long to unlace. Then he removed his hair from the ponytail and loosely braided it for bed. Finally, more out of common sense than desire, Aragorn ate a few grapes from the fruit bowl to serve as dinner.

When at last he collapsed into bed and drew the covers in around him, Aragorn deliberately tried to relax his body to allow for sleep to come. Tomorrow was the beginning of a grand test of skill—one that he had passively learned from casual observance of how Imladris and the rangers work in diplomatic circles, but not one against which his personal mettle has been tested.

As he drifted off, Aragorn's thoughts turned to Legolas, and how he practically ached for a few words of advice from his best friend. After all, it was on a diplomatic mission to Imladris that the Prince of Mirkwood first met the young adan fostered by Lord Elrond.

Fortunately his body was too tired for such depressing thoughts to manifest into heartbreaking dreams, and sleep at last came peacefully.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Fæder min bycgan an eoh ceorfan æt Edoras_ (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): Father bought me a carved horse from Edoras.

_Adar/ada_: father/dad

_Ilúvatar_: for all intents and purposes, this is God.

_Eluchil_: term used for the Heir of Thingol, which is Elrond.

_Béma_: The name in Rohan for the Vala Oromë.

_Adan/edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race

**Notes on canonical vs. _fan_onical conventions:**

_-On elves and height_: Galadriel's mother-name of Nerwen, which means 'man-maiden,' was given in part because of her great height. An alternate etymology of _Celeborn_ (aside from silver tree) is 'silver growing tall.' From this I have decided that they are probably among the tallest elves still left in Middle Earth. The other height information is mere speculation by the author according to the height traditions of the families and races of Middle Earth. Mainly, Noldor are tall and men of Númenórian blood taller until after the fall, when their stature began shrinking.

_-On Aragorn, Imladris, and languages_: Imladris was originally settled by Elrond's soldiers during the wars in Eregion. These would have been of the Noldor, who would have been bi-lingual. However, most Noldor used Sindarin in casual conversation because when Thingol prohibited the speaking of Quenya, the Noldor who followed the Fëanorians out of loyalty and curiosity and not out of oaths and kinslaying (the "innocent" Noldor who followed Galadriel and her brothers) were quick to learn Sindarin to further separate themselves from their treacherous kin in the eyes of the Sindar. Therefore the elves of Imladris speak Sindarin even though the Noldor citizens also know Quenya.

Elrond and family: In Sirion Elrond would have heard both Sindarin and Quenya often, but Sirion fell when he was still very young. Then he fell into the care of Maglor and Maedhros, who only spoke Quenya, so that language would have been reinforced at the time when languages are developed. Then he was found by Gil-Galad, who as High King would have had to use both Sindarin and Quenya in everyday use. This is when Elrond would have learned the bulk of his Sindarin, and he would have been young enough still for the process to be fairly painless. This makes Elrond, essentially, fluidly bi-lingual, and so he would select which language to use based on who he is talking to. For example, he would have spoken Sindarin to his wife because of her upbringing (that being the language of Eregion where she grew up (Quenya was spoken by the Celebrimbor and the jewel smiths, but Celebrían would not have associated with them)). He most likely speaks Quenya to Glorfindel, who died (the first time) before ever really having to learn Sindarin. Glorfindel of course learned Sindarin upon his return to Middle Earth, Quenya is most definitely his first language. The twins and Arwen would have learned Sindarin from their mother and Quenya from their father, which would make them even more effortless bi-lingual than Elrond, and they too switch between the two at need. Erestor's past is undefined in Tolkien's works aside from his Noldor heritage and that he wasn't born in Valinor. However, since he is quite studious and serves as tutor for Elrond's children it's probably safe to say that he is bi-lingual as well. Which language is first would depend on if his parents were followers of Fëanor or followers of Galadriel and her brothers.

Aragorn: As a child in Imladris (ages 2-5), Estel spoke Westron because of his mother. However, staying in Imladris among the Sindarin-speaking elves would have allowed him to learn that language rather quickly, as children are capable of doing. When Gilraen left, there was no one to speak Westron with, and eventually, as he grew old enough to learn to recognize and separate out one language from another, he would have stopped speaking Westron in Imladris until he began the formal study of that language as part of his tutelage. Then when he was five, Gilraen left and Aragorn was adopted as a son of Elrond. This would be the point where he was introduced to Quenya, and he would have picked that up rather quickly too given his age (though he probably spent a good while saying sentences spliced with in three languages before he learned to tell the difference). This would make Sindarin Aragorn's first language (because he spoke it the most often growing up) with Quenya a close second. Since he did not speak Westron between the ages of five and whenever he began his formal study of other languages (Westron and Dwarfish), that would make it his third despite the fact that it was the first he heard spoken.


	13. Ch 9: Symbelmynë

Negotiations between Rohan and Dol Amroth continued all summer long. Through the worst heat of summer, the delegates spent most of their days seated in uncomfortable wooden chairs at a long rectangular table in one of the many conference rooms in the sprawling Medusheld. The room was always hot and stuffy, with the delegates often fanning themselves with scraps of parchment as they tried to stay cool. Finding himself trapped far away from anything remotely resembling a breeze, Aragorn was reminded of why he had spent much of last summer out of doors.

The negotiation process was a long and arduous one. Negotiators from both sides would meet together for five straight days. On the sixth day both parties would meet separately to strategize and regroup in light of the recent progress. On the seventh day the diplomats of Rohan would meet with King Thengal for he held Rohan's final say in all matters. If the King liked the direction of the negotiations then the diplomats would move on; if not then they would sit back down and renegotiate with the men of Dol Amroth to find something more to Thengal's liking. The eight day was a universal day of rest for both sides, though at some point between days seven and eight the contingent from Dol Amroth would dispatch a messenger back to their Prince to keep him abreast of the proceedings. After three of these eight-day cycles negotiations would halt so that Prince Adrahil could digest the three updates he has received and formulate the appropriate responses to be sent back to the negotiations. When both parties were found to be satisfied with a particular topic, the negotiators would move on to the next item in the list.

In this oppressive heat tempers were found to have short fuses, especially from the men of Dol Amroth who were not used to being too far away for a cooling sea breeze to reach them. The men of Rohan were patient with the climate, but alas their patience didn't always extend to the men of Dol Amroth. Many recesses were called to allow hot heads to cool down in more ways than one and Aragorn wondered at the wisdom in the decision to hold negotiations in Rohan during the summer months. As Aragorn kept to his task of recording the minutes for the delegation meetings (including what was said in Elven neatly and clandestinely translated) he came to realize that Rohan's people are a lot like her climate: tempered slightly between the poles of two harsh extremes.

Despite these obstacles, for the most part the negotiations ran relatively smoothly. Through the course of three twenty-four day cycles it had been agreed upon that fertile Rohan would send caravans of produce south to coastal Dol Amroth in exchange for salted fish; Rohan's many quarries would send raw masonry to Dol Amroth in exchange for glassworks; and there was to be a free educational exchange so that soldiers from Dol Amroth could learn horsemanship from the military academy outside of Edoras if the people of Rohan were allowed to study at the great university in Dol Amroth at a one to one exchange ratio. Now as the hot days of summer were slowly turning to the milder days of autumn there was only one item left on the negotiating table: at what price would King Thengal part with one of his prized mearas for breeding stock.

When the negotiations had first begun, Aragorn was worried that he wouldn't be able to understand the Elven dialect of the people of Dol Amroth. Their accent was strange and took a bit of getting used to before he could isolate the individual words in their sentences; and even then many of their words were foreign to him. At first notice, if Aragorn was to listen without trying to comprehend what was being said, he would have thought that their speech sounded a lot like the Sindarin of the Falathrim, for the cadence was comparable. However, listening for comprehension revealed that every third word might have been complete gibberish for all he understood of it. In his recording of the minutes Aragorn had no choice but to write out these Elven mysteries phonetically. Over time, through repetition, study, and a lot of paying attention to context, Aragorn was able to piece together a known equivalent for most of mysterious words. Now, three cycles into negotiations, Aragorn is able to present a reasonable account of the Elven spoken at the negotiating table; and with each new understood word or phrase Aragorn has gone back into his minutes and updated them, making each subsequent version handed over to his superiors and eventually to the King that much more accurate than the version that came before.

Aragorn's nerves had settled considerably when he was finally able to provide useful transcripts of the spoken Elven to his superiors and at last he was able to relax a bit in his position. He was incredibly thankful that King Thengal was considerably more patient than the Rohan diplomats. It felt good to be useful to his adopted homeland, and it was an incredible relief that he wasn't letting Folca down with a mediocre performance as translator. Both he and the King had placed an incredible amount of faith in him, and Aragorn found himself very eager to please, especially when the necessary study of the strange Elven dialect overshadowed any reminders of his old life.

As much as he would have rather shied away from the responsibility, now that he found himself successful Aragorn had to admit that he was enjoying himself. The open satisfaction that the King expressed with his translations was the balm to a soul desperate for approval in light of the grievous mistakes it had made. On top of that, Aragorn found the subject matter fascinating. The more he was successful at it, the greater the gusto Aragorn used to pursue an understanding of what he called 'Amrothian Elven.' He hoped that once negotiations were concluded and he didn't have to keep his knowledge a secret that he could make arrangements to study it more closely. It even reignited his desire to master Rohirric, the study of which he had slacked off on in the weeks prior to departing for Edoras.

As Galadriel kept watch over him with her mirror, she did not hesitate to call him his father's son.

* * *

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn was walking down the garden path between his apartment complex and Medusheld when he heard his name called.

"Taradan," Aragorn greeted with a smile. He had befriended the young man from the Dol Amroth contingent.

"Here you are," said Taradan. "I've been looking all over Edoras for you."

"This is my one day off, Taradan," Aragorn reminded him. "Unlike you lazy diplomats of Dol Amroth, who get two."

"Now that's hardly fair," Taradan admonished him. "Just because you men of Rohan do not know how to sit back, relax, and take it easy..."

"Ah but I know quite well how to relax," Aragorn informed his friend. "I have just come from a morning of exercising my mare, and now I'm headed straight for a nice, leisurely bath."

"Bathing?" Taradan asked in mock-incredulousness. "How can you think of bathing at a time like this?"

Aragorn was confused. "Perhaps then it is you who do not know how to relax…"

"You mean you haven't heard?"

Aragorn blinked. "Heard what?"

"Mithrandir is here!" Taradan proclaimed, using Gandalf's Elven name in the style of the people of Dol Amroth. "He has come in honor of Prince Théoden's tenth birthday."

"Gandalf…" Aragorn breathed.

"Rumor has it that his birthday gift will be a fireworks display!" Taradan was obviously excited. He has never seen one of Gandalf's infamous fireworks displays.

"I did not even know that it was the prince's birthday," Aragorn lamented.

"Oh, worry not about that," Taradan advised him. "We aren't invited to the party anyway. But the fireworks display will be able to be seen by the whole city!"

"It's barely an hour past noontide," Aragorn informed his friend. "Fireworks are best viewed after dark. We have hours yet."

Taradan blinked, the logic of this statement falling belatedly before his eyes. Aragorn chuckled at his friend's almost youthful exuberance. He was about to say something when—

"Thorongil!"

Both Aragorn and Taradan turned in surprise.

"Folca," Aragorn greeted in surprise.

"I just wanted to catch up to you before I left," said Folca. "I am departing early for Strathcomb. Our scouts are worried about potential trouble along the borders of the West-march."

Aragorn frowned in thought. "Dunland?"

"Aye," Folca agreed. "Border skirmishes are more common than not, but the latest intelligence reports are worrisome. If they are correct then I had best be back at my post."

Taradan sensed that he was the reason the Third Marshall wasn't freely speaking his mind to his subordinate. "Thorongil, I will meet you in the Market Square at sundown."

"No-no," Folca protested. "Do not leave on my account, for I was just leaving." Then he turned to Aragorn. "I just wanted to bid you farewell before I left. Good luck with the rest of negotiations."

"Thank you," Aragorn said sincerely. "Be safe."

Folca smiled. "I always am."

And Aragorn wistfully watched his friend depart, unable to completely hold back the tide of worry that suddenly surged forth from nowhere.

"What troubles you, Thorongil?" He heard Taradan ask, interrupting his thoughts.

"Dunland," Aragorn answered candidly. "Folca's lieutenant would not have interrupted his holiday if he did not think his Marshall's presence to be of the utmost importance."

Taradan frowned, but only for a moment. "Do not trouble yourself," he directed with a forced smile. "Whatever the problem I'm sure the soldiers of Rohan can handle it. We diplomats must concern ourselves with other things."

"I was told a similar speech when I was but a healer," Aragorn informed his friend, grimacing slightly. "It did not work then, either."

"Has anyone ever told you that you are far too serious for your own good, Thorongil? My people have a saying: amarth hillathyn dyr denn firith. Do not waste today suffering for tomorrow. The future will always be there but the present one can never reclaim."

Aragorn stood silent a moment as he worked through the translation in his head. A few moments and he understood what Taradan had said, and then he smiled.

"Are your people always so fatalistic about the future?"

"It is our Elvish blood," Taradan explained. "An elf takes each day as it comes to him, and so do we."

Aragorn could not restrain his laugh at Taradan's comment. Fortunately Taradan misinterpreted its meaning and did not ask him for it.

"And speaking of living in the moment," Taradan continued. "We still have several hours until sunset. Let us head to the Market Square. The caravan from Gondor arrived this morning."

"A few gold coins burning a hole in your pocket?" Aragorn asked with a grin.

"In Dol Amroth we pay in silver," Taradan clarified. "And it's my tongue that's wanting a few glasses of Gondorian wine. Meads and Ales are one thing, Thorongil, but honestly how do you men of Rohan get by without brewing your own wine?"

"Lead the way," Aragorn gestured with a wave of his hand, choosing once again not to comment that he wasn't a man of Rohan. These truths would be revealed in time, as soon as it did not matter that everyone knew he spoke Elven. On that day, Aragorn vowed to tell Taradan all about his first experience with a bottle of Thranduil's private reserve…

* * *

It seemed as though all of Edoras was standing around outside as soon as the sun had completely set. Those that could were even standing on the roofs of houses and buildings. Everyone was anxiously awaiting the start of Gandalf's fireworks display in honor of their Prince's birthday.

Finally the Royal Procession took to the stone terrace in front of Medusheld. From where Aragorn stood with Taradan in a corner of the market square he had a perfect view when the royals finally made their appearance. Guards ceremoniously lined the far left and the far right edges of the terrace, and stood one on every step going down towards ground level. When they were in place, amidst great flutter and fanfare, King Thengal stepped onto the terrace with his wife Morwen on his arm. Dressed in royal greens and golds, she was a vision this first time that Aragorn got the chance to gaze upon her. It was indeed true what they said, that the blood of Westernesse flows strongly through her veins.

Behind them Prince Théoden entered, and in his first glimpse of the lad Aragorn saw that he strongly resembled his father. Aragorn then remembered that Thengal's first-born, the Princess Aldea, had died of pneumonia the winter before Thorongil arrived. Something told him that she would have taken after her mother, and might have grown to be very beautiful had the Valar not had other plans.

Aragorn stopped that train of thought in its tracks, deeming it best that he not dwell on the elusive will of the enigmatic (and cruel) Valar.

Aragorn then noticed that older woman in widow's robes stood with Théoden, a small child in her arms. He guessed that she was the King-Mother, much beloved of the people, and that it was Théoden's younger sister Calórien in her arms. Finally two guardsmen came into view, pushing a handcart that could only have contained Gandalf's fireworks. Aragorn held his breath as he waited for the wizard to appear.

"I think the King is going to address the crowd…" Taradan whispered beside him. Sure enough, the king raised his hands to signal the crowd to quiet.

"Good citizens of Rohan," Thengal spoke in a loud, booming voice that echoed down throughout the city square where the people were gathered and effectively got their attention.

The crowd instantly responded, shouting out as one on some unspoken cue born of much rehearsal: "Hail Thengal King!"

King Thengal raised his arms again to signal the crowd to quiet.

"My wife and I thank each and every one of you for turning out to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the birth of my son and heir."

Once again the crowd responded. In the same manner as before they all chanted as one: "Hail Théoden Prince!"

As soon as he had regained the crowd's cooperation, Thengal spoke again: "Of course, what is a bit of celebration without _a_ _bit_ _of celebration_?"

Wild cheering from the crowd.

Then, spoken in a normal voice such that only those standing on the terrace could hear: "Gandalf, my friend, I believe that was your cue."

"Oh yes! Right, of course." Gandalf was completely immersed in his occasional persona of the rascally, fun-loving old man with the pointy hat and walking stick that just happens to know a few parlor tricks. He sauntered over to where the guardsmen left the handcart with the fireworks. Then, as the crowd waited, silent and with bated breath, Gandalf used the end of his staff to set the fireworks alight.

There was an audible PFFT and then one of the magical rockets shot towards the sky, trailing a long white streamer as it went. It whistled slightly as it parted the air, and as soon as it was well above the city it exploded. The shell blew itself apart and beautiful green and gold streamers flew across the sky in all directions. The crowd cheered wildly.

"That was incredible!" Aragorn heard Taradan shout just as another firework exploded, this time red and orange and swelling outwards from a ball like the breath of a dragon. Aragorn couldn't help but clap along with the crowd.

Then the next one exploded: a parade of star-white horses galloped across the sky to twinkle into oblivion before bursting back in a shower of sparks and falling stars.

Aragorn could only watch as he allowed himself to be mesmerized along with the rest of the crowd. The last time he had seen Gandalf's fireworks was for his coming-of-age celebration, and the fireworks were just as stunning and beautiful as he remembered them. Of course, there was that wistfully sad moment when he allowed his mind to drift back across those memories… the song Glorfindel had composed for him, the only time he has ever seen Erestor smile openly, his brothers stopping their incessant fooling for once to be serious in his honor, Legolas swearing to never forgive him for his having to don the formalwear of a Prince of Mirkwood… Galadriel's formal words of praise, Celeborn's quite acceptance, Elrond's blatant pride in him… finding himself still holding Arwen's hand long after the dancing had been interrupted by Gandalf's fireworks………

Beneath the white and amber glow, Aragorn found himself clinging desperately to the memory. It burned him terribly, like a hot coal plucked from a roaring fire, but all the same he was afraid to let it go for fear that it was the only warmth he would ever be allowed to know.

That was before he learned that he was also Aragorn son of Arathorn and Heir of Isildur, before he knew the weight of such crushing responsibility… before he condemned himself to this aching loneliness on the hill of Cerin Amroth in a moment of blinding naiveté.

Aragorn closed his eyes, the pain momentarily proving too much for him to bear. The exploding sound of another firework swallowed up the faint "Arwen" he breathed on a tortured exhale, and no one heard him.

When at last he looked up again, amidst the wild cheering of the crowd and Taradan's blissful ignorance, his eyes drifted back to the terrace of Medusheld. Thengal and Morwen stood arm in arm, smiling happily towards the sky. The King-Mother had departed, most likely the loud noises proving too much for the young princess she had taken charge of. Théoden was standing beside Gandalf apparently talking excitedly to the wizard; most likely telling him what type of firework to set off next.

In the midst of all this excitement the sound seemed to fade away and time slowed down to a crawl. There, across the vast expanse of the Market Square, up the long ascension of stonework stairs to the terrace of Medusheld, Gandalf turned from the firework he had just lit. In molasses time the crowd followed the red streamers up… up… up into the sky until the firework exploded in a ball of fire that set everyone cheering. Aragorn did not look up, however. In this time out of time he saw that Gandalf did not turn immediately back to face the Prince. Instead, he directed his gaze out across the gathered throng. With little effort—almost as though he had known where to look, the wizard's eyes found Aragorn. His spirit wilted like a dying flower beneath the heat of Gandalf's gaze, but his body stood firm and defiant. Aragorn bravely met Gandalf's eyes, and then it seemed that the wizard barely nodded.

In the flash that burned out the last of the giant fireball time harshly snapped back into place. The roar of the crowd was suddenly deafening in Aragorn's ears as he saw Gandalf exchange a few words with Théoden as he prepared to light another firework.

Aragorn knew that he had been discovered. It of course had been counted as inevitable that Gandalf would eventually find him in his many travels in the southern kingdoms of men, but even still Aragorn had hoped to avoid it. He thought that by losing himself in the crowd he was safe from detection yet nothing, it seems, can escape the notice of a wizard.

Now Aragorn found that he had to prepare himself for yet another inevitability: Gandalf would be seeking him out just as soon as he could politely excuse himself from the company of the King.

Under the roar of the next exploding firework Aragorn mumbled his excuses to Taradan. He was not about to simply stand around and wait for Gandalf as though gaining an audience with the wizard had been his idea. No, rather he would make Gandalf come to _him_ if he so chose. With muddled thoughts, Aragorn sifted his way through the crowd and departed the Market Square, headed for his own quarters.

* * *

It was long since the sound of exploding fireworks had ceased that Aragorn finally heard the expectant knock at his door. He briefly debated whether or not to feign sleep until Gandalf gave up and left, but then he decided that he had no reason to bear any animosity towards the wizard. Reminder of the past though he may be, Gandalf is certainly not bound the life Aragorn left behind. Indeed, Gandalf the Gray is friend to all.

"You can come in, Gandalf," Aragorn called out. The door creaked open and revealed the wizard standing in the doorway. He had to remove his hat in order to fit beneath the door jam and he did so, placing it rather unceremoniously atop his staff. The staff itself he leaned up against the wall, and then he shut the door.

All the while Aragorn observed his movements passively from where he sat at the small table, one foot perched on the second chair with his own seat reclining so that the chair back butted up against the wall. As Gandalf turned to face him, hands on hips and staring down at him, Aragorn merely glance upwards, a completely blank though innocent expression on his face, as though Gandalf finding him thusly in Edoras was just an ordinary happenstance occurrence.

"The garb of a man of Rohan suits you surprisingly well."

Aragorn blinked. Of all the words he had expected to be the first out of Gandalf's mouth, those certainly weren't among them.

"Though I'm not sure I like the hair," Gandalf continued, for all intents and purposes giving Aragorn a critical eye. "Though that may be because I am so used to seeing you sporting Elven braids."

Aragorn was dumbfounded, not having the faintest clue as to how to respond to that. Finally he said,

"If I am to be a man of Rohan, then its best I look the part."

There was a twinkle in Gandalf's eye when he smiled, then he nodded.

"I have heard great tales of your exploits, young Thorongil of Strathcomb," he said, his tone formal. "As a healer, a soldier, and now, it seems, as a diplomat."

Aragorn tried his best not to smile, but failed miserably at it.

"Well, aren't you even going to offer an old man a place to sit down?"

The smile quickly fell for Aragorn's face to be replaced by a stunned look of abject horror. He kicked his foot off the second chair and shot to his feet, stammering slightly as all of Erestor's etiquette lessons slammed back into the forefront of his mind along with the emotionless, disapproving stares he would receive whenever he had acted incorrectly. Those looks had snapped him to rights a lot harder and a lot faster than ever could have been achieved with words, and now hearing Gandalf speak, Aragorn was confronted with both. Now standing, Aragorn opened his mouth to begin a profuse string of apologies, but Gandalf raised a hand and cut him off before he could speak.

"Thank you, Estel," that damn twinkle was back, along with the condemning smile. Was the wizard aware of the immense pain that lanced through his heart at the mere mention of his Elven name? That name, a word spoken as though there were no consequences when it passed Gandalf's lips, slammed into Aragorn's soul like a troll's hammer and rendered him speechless—not that it mattered right then, of course. For then Gandalf spoke: "But I think I would much prefer it if you would accompany an old man for a walk."

Gandalf smiled again, as though nothing out of the ordinary was occurring. He grabbed his hat and staff from where they were leaning and opened the door. The wizard exited the room without so much as a backwards glance as though he simply _knew_ that Aragorn would follow. Whether or not he was certain of this the smile that broadened when he heard the door close and latch behind him followed by an almost inaudible set of footfalls as Aragorn jogged to catch up.

"I do so love a leisurely stroll beneath the stars…" Gandalf continued a few paces after Aragorn had fallen into step beside him. "The night is warm, the sky is clear… A perfect night for it, wouldn't you say?"

Aragorn blinked in surprise, once again caught off his guard.

"I—well, it—"

"Of course it is," Gandalf interrupted Aragorn's uncertain stammering. "And I think the fields outside of the city proper provide the perfect destination." And they continued on in silence, out of the apartment complex, back along the garden path, around the side of Medusheld and through the abandoned Market Square, then back along the far side of the Golden Hall to where the city drops down in sloping paths and winding stairs to the city burial grounds and then to the wide and empty expanses of the plains of Rohan beyond.

To Aragorn's surprise, Gandalf picked his way through the symbelmynë until he came to a rather large mound. There he sat, as though it were just any grassy knoll covered with fragile wildflowers. Aragorn stood gawking for several moments but soon returned to his senses.

"Why have you brought us here?" He asked, his voice somewhere between pained and confused.

Gandalf's response was to tilt his head back and gaze at the stars. "The night sky is breathtaking tonight," he said. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Gandalf…" Aragorn replied hesitantly, "you're sitting on the dead."

"The people of Edoras do not come here often," Gandalf continued, almost as though he hadn't heard him. "Only when they must lay another loved one to rest. They choose a mound and add a body to it, cover it all again with fresh earth and within a month, the symbelmynë has taken hold and once more a person cannot tell one grave from the next."

"Gandalf…" All else aside, now Aragorn was merely confused.

"Have you ever wondered why the people of Rohan do not mark their gravesites? In all my travels in Middle Earth, I have found them to be the only culture to bury their dead without a monument."

Aragorn had no answer for him.

"In Rohan, a gravesite is only identified by these frail flowers that grow freely atop them," Gandalf continued as he stooped to finger the petals of a nearby symbelmynë. "They are the only ones who keep company with the dead, and the stars—" Gandalf glanced heavenward again—"are the only ones to gaze upon them in unfading memory." Gandalf then looked searchingly at Aragorn, who still stood where he was, about ten paces away between two smaller mounds and doing his awkward best not to trample the symbelmynë. "But are Varda and Yavanna the only ones who remember the deceased?"

Aragorn opened his mouth to respond but no sound came out. At first he thought the wizard was joking or being vague and metaphorical as he is often wont to do, but then he realized Gandalf was serious and found that he had absolutely no clue how to answer.

"Of course not," Gandalf supplied for him. "For how often have your thoughts returned to Bretta, or to the men who perished on the mountain?"

Gandalf might have driven Glamdring through Aragorn's chest for all the pain those words caused to his heart. The wizard watched as Aragorn tensed and then hastily turned his face away. His expression softened then, and he stood from the mound and walked a few slow paces over to where the ex-ranger stood.

"You carry a great many burdens for one so young," Gandalf spoke gently. "If it was within my power to remove them from you then know lost son of Arathorn that I most surely would do so."

Aragorn tensed again, glancing to the wizard sharply at the mention of his true father's name.

"Oh, worry not for eavesdroppers," Gandalf told him. "The dead do not idly converse with the living, and the stars and symbelmynë haven't betrayed a secret yet."

Despite himself, Aragorn laughed a broken laugh.

"Would that the dead would leave the living in peace," he said, pacing off a few steps as he suddenly craved a distance between himself and Gandalf. Standing off a ways, a gentle breeze suddenly breathed across the plains. Aragorn hugged himself then, chilled.

"You dream of the battle often," Gandalf concluded, his voice stating fact. From where he stood, arms still wrapped about his torso and facing off in a different direction, Aragorn nodded jerkily. He reminded Gandalf then of a very young Estel.

"Not so much of the battle," Aragorn spoke suddenly, surprising the wizard.

"Of the time before?" Gandalf asked him. "When you fought against death instead of orcs?"

"I had listened when Elrond and Glorfindel spoke of war," said Aragorn. "But I did not truly hear them. I did not see."

"See what?" Gandalf asked gently.

"That the hardest part of war…" Aragorn's voice drifted. "Comes afterwards."

"That is a tough lesson indeed," Gandalf informed him. "One that more and more people have been forced to discover as this age wanes."

Aragorn nodded gruffly, and then Gandalf asked him:

"What do you dream?"

Aragorn sighed tiredly. "I see their eyes, mostly," he replied. He was standing rigid enough that Gandalf thought he might snap in half. "Dead eyes, staring accusingly up at me." Aragorn paused, sighing again almost involuntarily, taking his time. Gandalf would have given him all the time in the world. "And when I awake, sometimes… sometimes—"

"The dreams follow you," Gandalf finished for him. Once again Aragorn nodded jerkily.

"Some mornings I check my hands, half-sure of finding bloodstains on them."

Gandalf gave a respectful pause to let Aragorn's words settle.

"The men of Rohan are very fatalistic about death," he said at length. "Surely you know that the living do not hold you accountable. Know also that the dead bear no animosity from the halls of their fathers."

"That is one thing to be spoken, Gandalf," Aragorn replied. "Another to be believed." Then his eyes alit in sudden understanding and he turned to face the wizard. "Is that why you brought me here? To stand amongst the nameless dead and find only starlight and white flowers?"

"It is quite peaceful here," Gandalf answered him. "Almost a pity that the living have not the time to wander these paths, but they are too busy focusing on living to share in the simplistic peace of the dead beneath Varda's heavenly light."

"You allude to Númenór and the fate of the kingdoms of Westernesse," Aragorn concluded tersely. "Don't think that I do not see your game. You would have me realize that it is better to spend life living it than it is to linger among the symbelmynë in hopes of hearing whispers of truths left unspoken by long-dead lips; that I should not stand here asking shameful riddles of the stars in the absent hope of a divine guidance that will never come. You would tell me to stop mourning my life before it is over, and to resume living it."

"Actually I was hoping that you would see that while the people of Rohan are perhaps the most successful at completely burying their pasts so that they do not affect their waking lives, at the same turn they can take no comfort in their memories, and gain no wisdom from them. They are so focused on the today because it chases away their fears of tomorrow, and that leaves little time to ponder on their yesterdays and the truths they do not acknowledge." Gandalf smiled then, his merry yet secretive smile. "But what you said was just as good."

"What comfort can I take in memory?" Aragorn asked, nearly choking on the bitterness of his own words. "What is the past but a reminder of things my own foolishness and arrogance have cost me? Things I can never have again…"

"Is that why you sleep soundest on nights you dream of war?" Gandalf asked, his voice neutral if not a little sad. "Because at least then, you do not dream of Arwen."

"Arwen!" The word caught in the back of his throat, the shouting sob wrenched from the pits of his soul without his permission.

"Do not expect your love for her to abate as you stumble through this half-life you have carved out for yourself." Gandalf informed him. "For as long as you wait for that then rest assured you will continue to torture yourself needlessly."

"Oh, would that I had buried my love long ago!" Aragorn lamented, tears falling unchecked down his cheeks as he turned shamefully away from the wizard once more. "That my feelings for her would be now as a grave of Rohan: plain as all my other secrets so that none who look upon the mound may tell what is hidden underneath; remembered only by the symbelmynë, who do not share their secrets."

"Truly, Aragorn? Is that what you wish?"

"I wish…" His voice trailed painfully. "I wish to sleep as they do, in peaceful solitude, laid to rest by the world, silent and without dreams."

"But why, Aragorn?" Gandalf persisted. "Surely the House of Elrond is undeserving of such a cruel fate as to be buried and forgotten by their Hope."

Aragorn whirled around in surprise at Gandalf's words.

"There is nothing I can do to them more grievous than what's already been done. There is no insult than I can sling greater than trying to steal their Evenstar!"

"And how have you reasoned that?" Gandalf asked. "How do you steal something that is willing to leave with you? Remember that Arwen's fate is Arwen's choice alone."

"Yet it was I that posed the question," Aragorn protested. "I brought about the situation by confessing my love for her. She would not have considered mortality if I did not give her reason to."

"Are you so sure?" Gandalf's redirect was simple enough, but it rendered Aragorn completely speechless.

"It matters not," he dismissed at last, his voice beyond tired. "After all that Lord Elrond and his family have done for me… I tempted Arwen towards mortality. However else you try to paint it, Gandalf… I tried to kill his daughter. I cannot think of a greater crime… a greater betrayal, than that."

Once again Gandalf's answer was very simple, but it sent spikes of pain screaming through Aragorn's soul: "What about killing his Estel?"

A heavy silence followed.

"Estel did not deserve to live," Aragorn said eventually in a tone that nearly made Gandalf nervous.

"I'm afraid you have the minority opinion," he informed him, straining to keep his voice light.

"Of course I do," Aragorn dismissed bitterly. "They still want me to fulfill my destiny."

"That is Aragorn's destiny, not Estel's."

"Oh yes," Aragorn retorted, his voice even more acrimonious than before. "The last hope of the elves. Don't you see how I have failed them? They were foolish to name me their salvation. I have brought them nothing but pain."

"How can you believe that?" Gandalf asked him. "It is your presence in their lives they value most. You cannot fail someone simply by living for that is all you need to do. The greatest pain you have brought to them is through your sudden disappearance."

"What do you mean?" Aragorn asked before he could stop himself.

"Surely you know," said Gandalf. "You must have heard tales of what Imladris was like after Celebrían sailed."

Aragorn petulantly turned away, not wanting to hear of how wonderful he had once made their lives. Yet Gandalf continued undaunted:

"Your brothers were lost to the throws of rage and despair, spending all their time hunting orcs, tolls, spiders, any servant of the enemy that they could find. They spent decades alone in the wilds, punctured only by brief stays in Mirkwood, whose pain at the loss of their Queen provided allowed them to forge a bond with Legolas that very few elves could understand. Thranduil's couriers were the only evidence that the sons of Elrond yet lived, for they stayed far from the painful memories of Imladris and openly refused the healing of Lothlórien. The few occasions when they would stumble home it was out of necessity only; when their supplies were beyond mending or one of them had taken an injury they could not cure without their Ada's help. Yet always they would leave again, before their wounds had fully healed."

Gandalf paused to let his words sink in, but Aragorn surprised him by taking the opportunity to speak.

"Glorfindel told me of that time," he spoke, his voice oddly detached, distant. "Of how as the centuries dragged on eventually they found themselves coming more and more to civilization, even if it was only a Dwarven mining town or a crude ranger camp. They would stay longer on the occasions that they returned home, but always they would leave again, almost driven by habit and the need for the routine than by their rage, which at long last had spent itself without their knowing." Aragorn bowed his head, almost as though the weight of what he was about to say either pained him greatly, or shamed him. "He told me of how their lives had neither joy nor purpose until they had a younger brother to spoil… and to stay home for."

Gandalf nodded sagely in agreement. "That is the complete and utter truth," he told Aragorn. "Yet you seem bothered by it."

"I filled the void in their hearts left by Celebrían when she sailed," he said at length. "Legolas told me this." Then he laughed, ironically or bitterly or to convey some other emotion that would not stay contained yet was easier on the soul to laugh than cry. "I help them to at last get over their grief for their mother and then in secret plan to whisk their sister beyond the circles of Arda. I can think of no better—no more deeply personal way to hurt them."

"What about assuming that their love for you is fraught with selfish limitations?" Gandalf asked, his was voice light yet his eyes were deadly serious. "Indeed you have hurt them, Aragorn, but only in thinking them so duplicitous and fickle."

Aragorn may have appeared confused, if he did not look for all intents and purposes that he had just been slapped.

"They…" he stammered, shaking his head slightly as his mind tried to process what Gandalf was saying to him. The words did not seem to want to pass his lips, and it was his heart at war with his soul to keep them contained. After painful moments his soul won out, however: "They have not… rejected me?" The naked insecurity and soft glimmer of hope held in his eyes and betrayed by his voice would have broken the hardest of hearts. Gandalf, of course, stood no chance.

"Of course not!" He stated vehemently, trying not to sound chastising or patronizing to such fragile ears. "Do you know what they did when they heard that you left, and the reasons why?"

Aragorn timidly shook his head.

"They searched for you that very night until well past sunset," Gandalf informed him. "Along with most of the House of Elrond. They looked for any sign of you until it was impossible to discern anything in the dark, and even then they did not stop. They barely slept that night, and by dawn the next day they were out in force to resume the search anew! Elladan and Elrohir each led a party, as did Glorfindel. They hunted for your trail from Mithlond to Erebor!"

"…Glorfindel too?" Aragorn asked in a small, disbelieving voice.

Gandalf nodded. "Indeed. Actually it was he that had the best chance of catching you, for he took his party south along Great Road. Only after he lost your tracks in a storm did he decide to cross the Redhorn Pass instead of continuing towards the Gap of Rohan. A decision I know that he deeply regrets."

Aragorn's emotions progressed from confused to stricken to on the verge of tears. "But… why?"

"Why?" Gandalf couldn't restrain himself from reiterating. "Because the instant you were named Elrondion you fell under the mantle of his protection. Need I remind you that both he and Erestor love the children of their Lord as though they were their own?"

Aragorn shook his head involuntarily, unable to believe his own ears. His long harbored pain refused to acknowledge it but the gut-wrenching longing in his soul once again proved the stronger.

"Erestor?" He squeaked out, not trusting his voice.

"You were his favorite pupil, Estel," Gandalf informed him. "The most respectful and the easiest to teach… Or so he thought, until your grossly misplaced assumptions that led to your hasty disappearance without a word."

A heavy, condemning silence fell. In its vast expanse Gandalf began to wonder if he took the 'tough love' routine a bit too far.

"I have hurt them all, haven't I," Aragorn concluded finally. His voice was strained, and sad.

"I won't lie to you, Aragorn…" but the wizard couldn't bring himself to say more.

Aragorn laughed then, a brief, abbreviated impersonation of a laugh. "No," he agreed. "You never have."

"Why did you leave, Aragorn?" Gandalf asked him gently.

Aragorn didn't answer.

"Was it to punish yourself?" The wizard persisted. "Were you ashamed?"

"I—" But Aragorn cut himself off, belatedly discovering that he couldn't answer the question. Finally he gathered himself up and he spoke again.

"I left thinking that I had committed the greatest of evils, and now you've come to tell me that that was indeed the truth. Only I'd had it backwards, if what you say is true and the greatest evil was attained in my leaving."

Gandalf smiled the faintest ghost of a smile. "And do you believe me?"

"Oh, how I want to!" Aragorn lamented, pacing off a ways. Instantly he regretted the admission, however, because the pain in his heart increased tenfold. Yet again, the long unspoken desires of his soul could not be contained by that pain, and his words forced their way up and over his heart, grating as they went.

"To believe that my family still loves me, that I am not dead to them—" And he cut himself off again, biting his lip and redirecting his gaze from the stars back down to the field of symbelmynë. Symbelmynë for remembrance…

"You are not dead to them, Estel," Gandalf said weightily, taking a few paces to begin to close to gap between them. They cherish your letters, and the medal you sent them. They are very proud of you."

Aragorn laughed again; laughter to keep from crying.

"I have tried so hard…" Aragorn confessed. "To adhere to what they've taught me. To be someone that they could still be proud of."

"And you think you've failed at this?" Gandalf half asked, half concluded.

"How could it be otherwise?" Aragorn redirected vehemently. "With Bretta long since cold in her grave, and those men! Those men on the mountain that I failed! And they have the audacity to reward my efforts with gold…"

"Because of you many more men returned home to their families than would have otherwise," Gandalf reminded him.

"Tell that to the eyes in my dreams," Aragorn directed in bitter seriousness. "Tell it to the grieving widows that flocked to Edoras demanding answers."

"The hardest lesson for a healer to learn is that they cannot save everyone," said Gandalf, his voice sad and gentle.

"Elrond could have saved them," Aragorn protested.

"As he saved Ereinion?" Gandalf shot right back. "Or Celebrían?"

"He _did_ save Celebrían," Aragorn reminded him pointedly. Then his eyes fell. "As for Gil-Galad… he was not given the chance. Everyone knows this."

"Oh yes," Gandalf agreed sarcastically. "He saved his wife so well that he nearly faded from grief at the outcome. And he was on the same field of battle as his king, and so had ample chance to keep him from harm."

"I see what you are doing," Aragorn cut in quickly. "But I am a poor comparison to the Lord of Imladris."

This time it was Gandalf's turn at long last to laugh. "My boy, if only you know how similar the two of you really are. Elrond himself learned the hard way, after you had already gone."

Aragorn remained petulantly silent.

"Why have you come here, Gandalf," he asked finally. His voice sounded hollow and dead. "I was surviving here… in exile… Trying to do a little bit of good, make a little bit of difference… though it would never be enough to make up for what I perceived to be the greatest of crimes. It was all I had left… To avenge Estel's stupidity through Thorongil's toil. Then you come here, and rob me of even that last scrap of dignity. Why, Gandalf? Why must you hurt me so?" He spoke from the pain in his heart, but even his soul demanded answers. His pleading voice and heartbreakingly honest questions were almost enough to make Gandalf regret his decision to come here.

Almost.

"I only wished for you to know the truth," he replied, a fair bit of regret in his voice. "I am sorry that the truth pains you."

"Why?" Aragorn asked again in a fragile voice. "Why was it so necessary that I know these things? That I trade one form of pain for another, and another kind of shame? Believing that I hurt my loved ones through carelessness and naiveté is one thing, but to come to find that the greatest evil I am guilty of is that because of my own selfish pain… I horribly misjudged—…" Aragorn cut himself off again, shaking his head and wishing for all the world that his knees would just give up on him and he could collapse down into the symbelmynë and sleep for once without the dreams. From this weariness he finished his thoughts aloud.

"I would have rather lived to the end of my days with the guilt of betraying them by trying to lead their Evenstar astray than to know how deeply I have wounded them because of my own cowardice."

"Aragorn, if you seek to replace one type of unnecessary pain with another then I cannot stop you. All I have tried to do was show you that you still have a family that loves you."

Unwilling to argue the point and unable to fight it anymore Aragorn just accepted Gandalf's words for truth.

"That is small comfort," he informed the wizard dejectedly. "Because as of right now I have no idea when I will be able to return to the North. I am in service to the Crown now, and after all Rohan has done for me I cannot simply walk away." Then quietly, bitterly, "I made that mistake once already."

"I did not come here to suggest that you do so," Gandalf informed him. "And you may take whatever comfort you will from the knowledge that when you are freed of your burdens here then you still have a home to return to."

"Home…" Aragorn breathed the word, almost as though he was afraid that it was merely an illusion, a bubble that would burst at the slightest touch, or thought, or word.

"You should sleep now," Gandalf directed. "And dream no more of war."

* * *

Aragorn awoke the next morning in his own bed. He felt groggy and disconnected to the point where he briefly wondered if he and Taradan had frequented the taverns the night before. When at last he sat up he saw that he was still wearing all of his clothes from the day before, and that's when he remembered.

"Gandalf…"

Their conversation by the graves, on dunes of symbelmynë beneath the stars. It all came rushing back into the forefront of his mind. His head swam and his chest ached as he freshly processed the memories—and what they might mean. He didn't know what to think or even to believe anymore. Gandalf had shown him the faintest glimmers of hope. Hope: a concept so foreign to him now that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

"Estel…" He breathed his Elven name, and all the pain wrapped up in those two syllables came crashing down around him, threatening to choke that hope out of him again once and for all. He curled into a tight ball atop his bed. "Estel…" he all but moaned, this time an aching, hungry lament. Then he sighed and attempted to gather his wits and unclench from the pain in his body. His rapid, shallow breaths came in ever-increasing gasps until at last he had slowed down his breathing, and with those enforced sighs, his body relaxed too. "That was my name… once," he continued. Then he shook his head and slowly uncurled his body. "But no more."

Aragorn chose to lie in bed as the memories came crashing and swirling around him as ghosts in the room, burning his skin whenever they brushed up against him.

"Ada…" He called out, barely half-aware. For the first time in over a year, he felt the sting of hope. It was as though all his life he has lived with the phantom pain of such a concept only to at last look down and discover that the hope is real.

For the first time since his departure south, Aragorn had dared to dream that he still had a family. A father, brothers, grandparents, tutors, _elves!_ "Arwen…" He breathed, relishing the sting of the word as one who has long dwelt in darkness loves the squint at the first glimpses of light.

In this painful glow of this new-found hope, he dared to think of her, to let his mind drift back across their memories. He closed his eyes and caught the scent of Elanor, as he and his beloved danced through fields beneath the clouds, and golden pedals were kicked up by the same wind that billowed her skirts and sent strands of his hair aloft. There was a warm flush to their cheeks as they held hands and pledged their troth to one another, as giddy as small children yet possessed of all the seriousness of their parents, and in this dreamscape he could have sworn he heard her call his name...

"Thorongil," he heard, and his dreams were ripped away. "Thorongil," she called again, but then it was not her. It was Gandalf and before their eyes all the elanor had all turned to symbelmynë. Thorongil stood alone amidst the graves beneath the stars, living to hide the heir of Isildur and breathing to atone for the life of Estel. It was Thorongil who now knew most painfully that hope was an even more crushing burden than despair, for in his despair he did not know that he had a family still, did not know that he was free to dream of Arwen.

And he did not notice that the tears we freely flowing. To believe that he had committed terrible crimes against his foster family was one thing, for that meant that his banishment from their realms was not changed in that he preempted them. However, to know that he was forgiven—that indeed his family felt that there was nothing to forgive, that was the worst fate that his soul could have possibly endured. Instead of hurting them through naiveté he hurt them through cowardice, and the chains preventing him from returning home are entirely of his own forging. They have done nothing, and all he has done is hurt them, and hurt them still.

In his pain Aragorn began to understand the greatest irony, that sometimes hope can be an even more crushing burden than despair. To know that his family still loved him was the balm to the wounds on his heart that he had long since given up the hope of healing. The hope that rooted out the despair festering in his soul made his stomach grind in knots, for now how could he return to them? How could he face them again, knowing the gravity of what he's done? How can he accept forgiveness knowing full well exactly how much he does not deserve it? And even if he could overcome his shame, and the cowardice that made him regret that he was ever born—there were still his duties to Rohan to consider.

Aragorn ran away from family once. He would not make that mistake again.

That was what he latched onto in the end, his duty to Rohan. It's what gave him the resolve to at last unclench his body and to stand and face his day, and the life that he has made. Even as hope pained his soul even more than ever despair could manage, Aragorn found the strength to pull himself up out of bed. Silently he stood, stretching his tired limbs and arching his back. The scent of symbelmynë still lingered in his nostrils and he felt the chill of the dew on his skin. He shivered, feeling slightly ill.

When he was ready he gathered a few things and left his quarters. He went down the hall to the bathing chambers and was relieved to find them empty. Then, not caring about how wasteful it was Aragorn set all the coals alight and proceeded to warm caldron after caldron of water. This he did methodically, focusing intently on one task after another in the endless repetition until at last the tub was deep enough to bathe in.

This accomplished, Aragorn stripped and gingerly stepped into the tub. He found the water to be a comfortable temperature and so he swiftly brought in the other foot. Then he gently eased himself down into a sitting position. The tepid water was nicely refreshing even though it was barely high enough to reach his navel.

From the sitting position Aragorn gently leaned back until he was reclining against the far wall. Then he allowed himself to slowly slink down into the water until it came up to his chin. Aragorn sighed and closed his eyes, mentally forcing his muscles to relax and content to allow his mind wander into stillness. The words of the wizard still echoed loudly in his mind. Loudly… loudly… loudly until finally the sounds were distorted as Aragorn had sunk low enough in the tub so that the water covered his ears. He allowed it to rush into his nostrils and chase away the scent of symbelmynë, and he opened his eyes to wash away the view of Varda's unyielding stars.

When first hope had turned to despair he changed his name and fled far south from the source of pain and tried to forge a life anew: the life of Thorongil. Now that despair has once again returned to hope, there is nothing that Thorongil can do. Here, beneath the gently lapping ripples of the bathwater, for as long as Aragorn continues to hold his breath Thorongil may yet live. But now his chest was burning and the pain of suffocation was so intoxicating in how it reminded him of how he has deprived himself of dreams of Arwen that now he knew why his dreams of war reminded him of drowning.

Aragorn could have lived with their hatred. Their forgiveness, however, may prove more than his soul can bear.

Finally Aragorn sat up again. With a choked sigh he pulled up the heavy plug to allow the water to drain away. As he sat there in the slowly receding water he couldn't help but futilely wish that his memories of last night would be leeched out of his body so that they may flow away down the drain and leave in their place the knowledge that Estel is loved only by the symbelmynë.

Symbelmynë, for remembrance…

With heavy steps and slow, tired movements Aragorn climbed out of the tub, dried himself off, and dressed in fresh diplomats robes. Thankfully today's meeting was delayed in order to give everyone the chance to recover from the Prince's birthday festivities. When at last he approached the looking glass to comb through his hair Aragorn reckoned that he would still make it to the conference room on time.

"Evil has many faces," he recalled one of Erestor's lessons as he gazed at his own and wondered to whom he was speaking.

"Thorongil!" He heard someone cry out. Turning quickly he saw that it was Taradan, who burst suddenly through the closed door into the bathing chamber. "Thorongil have you heard?"

"Heard what?" Aragorn asked, confused.

"The Dunlanders have broken through the line! They're marching across the Westfold, burning as they go."

"What?" Aragorn managed to choke out through his surprise and alarm.

Taradan nodded. "Negotiations have been put on hold until further notice. King Thengal is mustering the Rohirrim. Rohan is riding to war!"

As if to punctuate that sentence, the giant bell that hung in the courtyard was hammered and its peal rang out across the city. Both Taradan and Thorongil ran to the window. In the distance they saw the bell being struck again and again, calling forth the Riders of the Mark. With each successive note Aragorn's thoughts narrowed in: first to war, then to his conversation with Folca, then to the Westfold and the village of Strathcomb where Thorongil made his home. Then finally, he thought of Lindewyn, and a wholly new brand of tightness took up residency in his chest: fear. Then, with a surprisingly steady voice, he asked:

"Taradan, where are the King's riders?"

* * *

**Translations:**

_Mearas_: the prized horses of Rohan.

_Falathrim_: the Teleri who completed the journey to Beleriand with their kin but decided that they didn't want to sail West after all. They stayed on the far-western shores of Middle Earth under the rule of Círdan.

_Amarth hillathyn dyr denn firith_: fate will follow days unto (the) fading. The root sentence "amarth hillath ir denn firith" is the direct Sindarin translation. However, to accommodate for the Silvan influence I have borrowed a few traditions from one of Tolkien's inspiration languages: Welsh. Several variants of the Welsh for 'to follow' end in the letters 'yn' so I added those letters onto the end of the Sindarin future conjugation of follow, 'hillath,' because the resulting 'hillathyn has an Elven cadence. Also, several Welsh variants for the word 'day' begin with the letters 'dy.' Therefore it was a natural change to make the Sindarin word for days (which can be written as ir, yr, or er according to the Sindarin laws for plurals) the combination word 'dyr.'

_Westernesse_: another name for Númenór.

_Varda_: Vala spouse who set the stars in the sky.

_Yavanna_: Vala who is responsible for all things that grow.

_Glamdring_: the name of Gandalf's sword.

_Arda_: The world

_Elrondion_: son of Elrond

_Adar/Ada_: father/dad

**Notes:**

_-On Elven languages and dialects_: The following is an author's supposition incorporating linguistic traditions and Tolkien's writings:

A dialect evolves when one group of individuals remains isolated from others that speak the same language. Through the generations the languages change subtly due to cultural influences. Think of it like as the differences in English spoken in the various regions of the United States, or in different corners of the British Isles, etc. An example of such would be what you consider the word for carbonated syrup and caffeine that comes in cans and bottles (pop, soda, tonic, whatever). If you're in the supermarket and ask a clerk where you can find the "soda" and he sends you to the household supplies section for baking soda then you understand the problems Aragorn faces as he tries to understand what the delegates from Dol Amroth are saying when they speak Elven.

How this relates to the elves: When the elves first awoke they spoke only one language. Then as they diversified the languages evolved and changed. Think of this language as Latin, and from it evolved what we call the Romance Languages (French, Spanish, Italian, etc). While all claiming the same parent language, each dialect spoken in a different region eventually evolved to the point where it was promoted from "dialect" to "language." In this fashion, Quenya is the language that evolved in Valinor and was then brought back across the sea by the returning Noldor. Sindarin is the language spoken by the Gray Elves of Beleriand (Doriath and Círdan's falathrim) and their descendants. If you think of the original Elven as a road, picture now a 3-way fork. One branch going off to the left far, far away is Quenya. The middle and the right branches continue on side by side and occasionally cross each other. These are the Sindarins of Doraith and the Falathrim. Because Silvan evolved as the tongue of the elves that departed the journey to Valinor before crossing the Misty Mountains (original settlers of Lórien and Mirkwood), think of that as the right fork way back along the road that you didn't take.

The First Age: The Quenya-speaking Noldor returned. Thingol forbade the speaking of the "Noldor tongue" because of what Fëanor did to his brother's kin in Valinor (the first kinslaying) and as a result most Noldor took it upon themselves to learn Sindarin when not fighting Morgoth's forces (or other elves). They would have either learned the Sindarin that evolved in Doriath or the Sindarin of the Falathrim. The one exception would have been the Noldor that settled Gondolin: they remained hidden for so long that they developed their own dialect of Quenya. Also at this time the Silvan-speaking Green Elves found their way into Beleriand and learned one of the two dialects of Sindarin. Then when Nargothrond and Gondolin were sacked by Morgoth and Doriath was sacked by the sons of Fëanor the refugees eventually found their way to the Mouths of Sirion. In this city in the heart of the territory controlled by the Falathrim of Círdan, the languages spoken are the following: Quenya and Gondolin-Quenya, Sindarin of Doriath and Sindarin of the Falathrim, and Silvan of the Green Elves that has by now been influenced by both Sindarin dialects and the main dialect of Quenya. Over time all of these languages were able to influence each other.

The Third Age: Quenya is only used in the utmost of formal settings and is spoken only by the few remaining Noldor. Glorfindel still probably uses a few Gondolinian cuss words, though. Sindarin by now has incorporated all that it will of Silvan, which itself has disappeared. The Green Elves and their descendants live mainly in either Mirkwood or Lórien, though a few can be found amongst Círdan's people at the Gray Havens or Lindon. In the second age the Silvan of Mirkwood accepted a Sindar ruler in Oropher, and so Sindarin was adopted as the official language. Silvan was incorporated to a slight degree before disappearing. The Silvan of Lothlórien became less isolationistic during the second age, though the exact history of the realm is uncertain. Most likely a few Green Elves who spoke the original Silvan sought out their kin after the War of Wrath (much the way Oropher did, but for less politically motivated reasons) and found Lórien. This is how Galadriel and Celeborn were able to have dealings with King Amdir of Lórien during the Wars of Eregion. Over time the elves of Lórien came to speak a version Silvan-Sindarin that was as similar to that spoken in Mirkwood as it was different. This would have been the dialect of Nimrodel and her handmaidens, who are reportedly the source of the Elvish blood of the people of Dol Amroth and therefore also the source of the Elven they speak. However, now in Lórien, under the rule of Galadriel and Celeborn, a more Sindarin-heavy dialect is spoken, reflecting Celeborn's Doriath heritage. Therefore, it can safely be said that the dialect of Elven that the people of Dol Amroth speak now is a derivative of a dialect that no longer exists among the elves. That is the language that Aragorn must translate, pulling from his knowledge of Quenya and the Sindarin spoken in Imladris.

If you were to take an English speaker from Boston, Glasgow, Vancouver, Sidney, and Kingston and tell them to all sit down and converse they'd eventually be able to understand each other, but only after they realized that they should leave out their colloquialisms and to try and focus on having good diction. Now substitute Sindarin for English and make those individuals elves from Imladris, Lothlórien, Mirkwood, Lindon, and the Gray Havens and you get the general idea. Then take the one from Sidney who also happens to speak Latin (read: Quenya) and send him back in time to early colonial Boston and have him write down a translation of everything that the people say with no leniency on their accent and no courteous lack of colloquialisms and you've got Aragorn's task as translator for the King.

**Canonical vs. _fan_onical conventions:**

_On Théoden's family_: Thengal's wife Morwen was a woman of Gondor. Théoden was the second of five children and the only male. However, the only sister named is the youngest Théodwyn, who was the mother of Éomer and Éowyn. At this point in the timeline, the youngest two princesses haven't been born yet. Also, to make the matter of his succession easier (and to neaten up the plot because it will matter later) I've taken the liberty of killing off his older sister before Aragorn arrived in Rohan.


	14. Ch 10a: Thorongil's reckoning, part 1

Aragorn marched swiftly and surely across the courtyard towards Medusheld.

"You can't be serious!" Taradan called after him, trailing behind and jogging to catch up.

"I cannot sit back and do nothing," Aragorn stated plainly without stopping.

"You are a _diplomat _now! King Thengel will not consent to this!"

That got Aragorn's attention. He stopped in his tracks. "I am not of Rohan," he declared, turning to face his friend. "But nevertheless her people are my people now, and my home is in the Westfold. I will not sit idly by while it burns to the ground."

"If indeed you _are_ of Rohan then have faith in her King's armies," Taradan begged. "They have beaten Dunland in the past."

"And if it were Dol Amroth, Taradan?" Aragorn asked softly.

Taradan winced, but then relaxed on the tail of acknowledged defeat. "Do you truly think that King Thengel will grant you leave to ride with him? Your uses are here in Edoras now."

"Perhaps," Aragorn conceded. "But I am not intending to ask his permission."

Taradan saw that his friend was deadly serious. "But you are a mystery, Thorongil of the North," he declared almost absently. "Healer, soldier, diplomat… I wonder which is more the truth."

"Take care, Taradan," said Aragorn in the way of goodbye. "I will see you again soon."

"Be safe, Thorongil," Taradan replied. Aragorn nodded once, briefly before turning on his heels and continuing his trek.

Taradan could only stare after him in an odd mix of worry and wonder.

It would only occur to him later, after the King's army departed, that Thorongil had purposely avoided his question.

* * *

Aragorn marched right up to the front doors of the Golden Hall. 

"I would speak with the King," he told the door warden.

"The King is preparing to ride," the warden informed him.

"Thank you," Aragorn replied, completely ignoring the fact that the warden's explanation was meant to be taken that his majesty was not to be disturbed. Instead Aragorn marched right passed the warden, easily ignoring the man's efforts to halt him.

"Majesty!" Aragorn heard the man call out from somewhere behind him. He had just shoved the giant doors opened wide, revealing a mostly empty Hall. King Thengel was standing near his throne, being fitted into his armor by several attendants whom Aragorn recognized but couldn't name.

The King and his men looked up sharply at the sudden intrusion.

"Your Majesty," Aragorn heard the warden repeat. The man was still behind him, jogging to keep pace with Strider's long strides. King Thengel awkwardly raised a half-gauntleted hand to halt both men.

Finally allowing himself to remember courtly propriety, Aragorn stopped short. He went rigid, suddenly uncertain as to what to say or do now that he was face to face with King Thengel—who was currently fixing both Aragorn and the poor door warden with a bemused yet irritated stare.

"I'm sorry, your majesty," the warden hastened to stammer. "But he marched straight past me and I—"

"That's all right," the King assured rather dismissively. "I'm sure Thorongil has a perfectly good excuse for his rather untimely entrance." Thengel's annoyance was plainly obvious, and Aragorn visibly flinched. Somewhere between his suddenly spiking worry and frantic mental search for the correct words he found the time to be grateful that the King's men were already amassed for war. Otherwise he would have most surely found himself held at sword point by now.

Yet the elves had schooled Aragorn well. He lowered his eyes and dropped to one knee; when he spoke, it was to the King's feet yet still loud enough to be heard.

"A thousand apologies for my rudeness," he demurred with naked honesty. "I would beg your majesty's forgiveness, and I request permission to speak."

A seemingly tense silence hung in the air, but Thengel's eyes were smiling—not that Aragorn could see it. He had taken a liking to the young healer-turned soldier-turned diplomat from the first time he'd met him, over a year ago at Bretta's funeral, and as he got to know the man better it has become exceedingly obvious that Thorongil had a knack for pulling himself out of whatever hole he managed to dig himself into. Matters of diplomacy included.

"On your feet then," King Thengel directed with just a touch of impatience. "You have until I finish suiting up to speak your peace. Then I must ride."

Aragorn hastily stood though he didn't lose any of his rigidity. As he found his feet he saw Thengel nod past him. The door warden looked a bit put out but he did leave the Hall, shutting the doors behind him and returning to his station.

"Thank you, your majesty."

"Now tell me young Thorongil, what in the fires of Mordor is so important that you cast aside your trademark humility for dramatics?"

Aragorn flushed at the less than subtle chastisement, good-natured though it was. "King Thengel, I understand you have mobilized every available rider to meet the threat from Dunland."

"What of it?" the King redirected as his gauntlets were strapped to his forearms.

Aragorn steeled himself. It was now or never.

"I humbly request permission to join your majesty's army."

Thengel sucked in a breath, giving the valet busy with his breastplate sudden pause to readjust the straps. "As a healer?" he asked, his tone guarded.

"As a soldier," was Aragorn's softly spoken yet certain reply.

"An unusual request for a diplomat," Thengel mused, offering bait.

"I am no diplomat," Aragorn informed the King, in self-deprecation rather than defiance.

"I know an entire conference full of people who would argue that assessment," Thengel informed him.

Aragorn briefly turned his gaze aside. To Thengel he seemed stricken, and if the King weren't so accursedly curious he might have tried to amend his statement. Regardless, his conscience did not have time to overrule him, for just then Aragorn looked up again. This time though, instead of looking _to_ Thengel, he was looking _at _him.

Straight at him.

Thengel realized then, suddenly—painfully—that it was the first time Thorongil's mercurial depths connected to his own. Something was revealed there, in the simple act of making eye contact. Something that the King had never seen before in the countenance of the mysterious young man from the North.

"Before I was taught the first healing stitch I was taught to shoot a bow," Aragorn stated calmly, snapping Thengal back to full awareness. "Long before I learned to navigate the deadly battleground that is the negotiating table I learned to swing a sword. Whatever I was—whatever I am or may one day become… First and forever I am a warrior. I seek only the right… to be treated as such."

The King held Aragorn's eyes steadily. Somehow he understood something—something that he could not name nor place finger upon. Yet he knew that he could not deny Thorongil his request. Actually, Thorongil could have been so bold as to ask to ride to war seated in full regalia atop the King's personal warhorse and Thengel might have found himself agreeing, if the man's eyes would have spoken for him then as they did just now.

"There is no shame in being left behind," Thengel reminded him gently after a brief pause. "Not when you are needed to serve your King in other ways."

The assurance of Aragorn's gaze faltered some. Some of the understated confidence was replaced by a kind of private pain; and when he spoke, Aragorn matched the King's soft tones.

"King Thengel, I lost my home and my family in the North due to cowardice and inaction. I make my living now in Strathcomb in the Westfold. Please your Majesty, I cannot suffer to make the same mistake again."

If his manner shocked the King before, Thengel was beside himself now. He knew from Folca that Thorongil's past was a painful one, and that no one knew the depths of that pain because he would not be pressed to share it. Yet now that he had—in a very small, haunting fraction of truth, Thengel found himself surprisingly quick to reject it.

"You are no coward, Thorongil of Strathcomb," he declared with kingly authority. "A coward would not have saved Bretta's baby amidst the protests of the healers. A coward would not have ridden into war despite orders to single-handedly ensure the survival of the men trapped on the mountain. And a coward would not be standing before me now, having so outrageously burst into my Hall, to request to be allowed to join the fight when his station requires him to remain in Edoras until the fighting is over."

Aragorn blinked and looked away, unable to withstand the sincerity in Thengel's eyes. "Will you grant my request?" he asked, a hint of pleading in his voice.

Thengel sighed. As much as he didn't want to, he knew that he could not refuse. "Be at the muster behind the city in a half-turn of the hour glass. We must ride swiftly, and we wait for no man."

"Yes, Majesty!" Aragorn bowed curtly, a childish grin striking across his face. When he straightened Thengel nodded gravely to him. "Thank you," Aragorn managed to add with all the gravity the situation warranted. Then he turned on his heel and fled the Hall, just as swiftly and as boisterously as he entered.

"That boy means to get himself killed," one of Thengel's valets groused as he secured the King's sword harness to his majesty's hip.

"Perhaps," Thengel mused. "Folca will not be pleased."

"He will not question Your Majesty's decision," the other valet assured as he attached the King's cloak about the shoulder guards of the hauberk.

Thengel laughed. "Of course he will," he corrected. "Everyone in Rohan is welcomed to question her King's decisions. I remain unopposed as King because I always happen to have the right answers."

The first valet stood. He took Thengel's sword and, kneeling, presented it to him. Thengel took the sword and bade the valet to rise. He twirled the blade about his wrist, making giant slashing arcs through the air before swiftly re-sheathing it at his side.

"And what is the King's answer?" the valet asked. He was an older man, and had been Thengel's attendant since his majesty's childhood.

Thengel turned to regard his old friend, and his eyes held all the weariness of his station. "I don't know," he admitted truthfully. "But I cannot believe that it is the will of Béma that that boy should die this day."

"If it is," the valet countered, "then it will not be Folca's wrath that you must face, but Lindewyn's."

"If she still lives," the other valet added gravely.

"Don't even think it!" Thengel commanded in a tone that allowed no arguments. Then, quieter and to himself: "Don't even think it."

* * *

Aragorn sprinted back across the courtyard and over to the apartment complex. He had less than a half and hour to get ready. 

Swiftly he changed out of his casual robes and into the customary tunic and pants garb worn by all rangers. He secured his dagger at his boot and strapped his sword to his belt. His bow and quiver were slung over one shoulder.

Now dressed for battle, Aragorn paused, taking a few deep, calming breaths. Dreams from his last war for Rohan still plagued his sleep, and Gandalf's words from the night before returned to haunt him. Aragorn unsheathed his sword and swung it reflexively in the small space that was his chamber. Then he transferred the blade to his left hand and snorted in disgust that he still did not like his grip.

Aragorn's face hardened into grim lines when he re-sheathed the sword.

_To avenge Estel's stupidity through Thorongil's toil…_

That's what he had said to Gandalf about his purpose in Rohan. He knew that for as long as he lived and breathed, Thorongil's toil would never cease. Yet now, he grimly realized, Thorongil's reasons were no longer selfish. It wasn't about _Estel_ anymore. Estel's life was not the reason he was dressed now in battle garb. Aragorn was riding now to war for _Thorongil_. It was _Thorongil's _home and family that were threatened, and he would not fail them.

"Ic becuman, Lindewyn," he vowed in broken Rohirric.

In heart, mind, and spirit it was Thorongil that would ride with the King today.

And he was going to be late.

It was a fortuitous last minute thought that allowed him to grab his personal satchel of healing supplies on his way out the door.

* * *

Aragorn found Ulmafan in the paddock outside the city. During the day the horses that did not see daily use were allowed to freely roam and graze. She trotted happily over to her master and Aragorn held up his palm for her to nuzzle into in the way of greeting. 

"Mae govannen," he greeted his mare as he stroked her face and lovingly brushed her mane out of her eyes. "Today we must ride."

Ulmafan followed her master obediently out of the paddock and back towards the barn where tack was kept. She stood docilely while Aragorn fetched her saddle and bridle and withstood being tacked with only a few grunts of annoyance. Her master was not supposed to ride today…

Aragorn had Ulmafan tacked in record time. He secured the satchel of healing supplies to the saddle and the followed suit with his bow and quiver to make the ride easier on his back. He wasted no time as he galloped around the outskirts of the city and made his way to the mustering Rohirrim.

When he arrived he saw that the riders were all seated atop their mounts, which were standing in a large, haphazard throng. Aragorn moseyed Ulmafan over to the edge of the contingent as he tried to pick out a familiar face in the crowd. This was the King's éored though, and while he recognized a few from having been these past weeks at Edoras, he did not truly know any of them. Aragorn found that he was not the only latecomer, however, and as more straggled in the riders gave none of the new arrivals more than a passing glance.

Aragorn was oddly grateful for the lack of scrutiny. At least, he mused, no one would dare to tell him that he had to change horses this time.

Not a minute passed after Aragorn's arrival before a blare of trumpets sounded across the field. King Thengel made his entrance, flanked by the men of his own personal guard, his herald, and his standard-barer. The riders instantly quieted, and it seemed that even their horses stood at attention.

Ulmafan snorted indignantly at the regalia, for which Aragorn quietly chastised her. Now was not the time for Elvish horses to share their opinions.

"Riders of the Mark!" Thengel addressed the men, wasting no time. "The Dunlanders have attacked the Westfold! Marshal Folca has called for reinforcements and we are going to answer him! We ride west—west to war!"

The soldiers cheered and shouted Rohirric war cries as the trumpets sounded again. That was all the fanfare afforded, and even before the throng had regained their serious composure Thengel had urged his horse into a full gallop. His herald on his right and the standard-barer of Rohan on his left, the King led his éored forth from the fields of Edoras, the still-rising sun beating down upon their backs and glinting harshly off the gild of helms and armor. Aragorn squinted and hunkered down alongside Ulmafan's neck as she took her cue from the horses around her and lunged forth into a gallop of her own in time with those beside her.

In the first strides of the ride, Thengel's guard fanned out and advanced to cover their King from all sides, enclosing his majesty and the two riders at his side in a formal circle of protection. Behind this circle, the rest of the army followed, and Thorongil atop Ulmafan was swallowed up by the crowd.

* * *

The riders held to their westward course until sundown. Then a break long enough to rest the horses was announced and the procession halted. Here in the foothills of the White Mountains both men and horses found shallow pools of rainwater to quench their thirst. 

Aragorn dismounted and allowed Ulmafan to wander to a pool to drink. He walked a few paces on the rocky ground and arched his back. The company had been riding at top speeds for nearly ten turns of the hourglass and it felt good to have the ground beneath his own feet again.

After this brief respite for his muscles Aragorn plodded his way over to Ulmafan, who was still drinking at one of the pools. His water skin was attached to her saddle. Unfortunately, the horses were crowed in so close together that he doubted whether or not he could retrieve it before their numbers thinned a bit. Cursing his absentmindedness Aragorn resigned himself to wait.

Aragorn looked around. The other riders had broken off into lose groups, standing in clusters and circles, and were exchanging idle chitchat. He wondered if the men stood with their families, their friends, or with their own companies within the éored, but truthfully the answer didn't matter.

It just made Aragorn feel that much more isolated from his fellow riders.

He let out a resigned sigh and sank to his knees on the rock-littered ground. There were a few wisps of grass here and there, so the horses would have something to graze on before they had to ride on. From his knees, Aragorn reclined to sit on his heels. He regarded the scenes around him with tired eyes.

_You dream of battle often._ Gandalf's words last night. _Because at least then, you do not dream of Arwen _

Aragorn closed his eyes with a shuddering exhale.

Here he was, riding forth to battle again. Somewhere between this sheltered spot beside the Misty Mountains and the River Isen they would encounter at least the evidence of the Dunlanders' passing. Strathcomb was just one of many small townships littering the Westfold between the vast expanses of pasture and farmland. One could not assume anything of the enemy's path—not without having encountered some sort of sign. Aragorn knew this.

Though it did nothing to ease the gnarled pit of anxiety rumbling through his insides.

_Why did you leave, Aragorn? Was it to punish yourself? Were you ashamed?_

His leaving had been selfish. Aragorn realized that now. He could not stand to suffer the rejection of his family and so he had fled before the damning words had the chance to materialize. He thought that he had been saving them the trouble. In reality, all he sought to save was his own fragile soul.

"I _am _ashamed," he breathed softly; and he was. Of his assumptions and of his cowardice.

But none of that mattered now. Nothing of Estel's life or of all the pain of last night's revelations—of all that wounding hope! None of it matter now, here beside the towering giants of the Misty Mountains. Lindewyn was out there ahead of them, sitting vulnerably in Strathcomb if it hadn't been destroyed already. Folca's contingent had already engaged the enemy, somewhere to the West. It was _Thorongil's_ life and family that were in peril now.

Suddenly the trumpets sounded. Horses and riders found each other again. The riders remounted and the throng coagulated. Ulmafan found her way to Aragorn's side. It was time to ride.

Aragorn remounted, his thirst forgotten. It was time for Thorongil to rejoin the ranks of the Rohirrim. Then as one the éored eased back into a thundering gallop, marching ever westward across the plains of Rohan. All knew that this ride would end in war, as they fought to protect their homeland and their families from invasion.

_I have tried so hard… _

Aragorn found himself surrounded on all sides. A pocket of Rohirrim had enveloped him as they rode. Each rider bore identical looks of fierce determination. The exact same thought was spread between them.

_To adhere to what they've taught me._

In that moment Aragorn tried to feel like one of them. He was a man of Rohan now—Thorongil of Rohan. And his home was to the west, and it was under attack.

_To be someone that they could still be proud of._

He grit his teeth and hunkered low alongside Ulmafan's neck as he allowed himself to share in the Rohirrim's common purpose. It was time to fight for those they loved.

* * *

Time was difficult to discern as the company rode beneath the stars. Had it been an hour since their brief interlude? Two? Isil was beginning to climb the firmament of the night sky… 

Aragorn wasn't even sure where they were in regards to their westward march. He found himself towards the center of the éored, and Ulmafan had darted this way and that, picking her way over the rock-littered ground to find the path of least resistance. Here in the dark, with only other riders to use for points of reference until Isil was high enough to provide a beacon, Aragorn had long since stopped keeping track of their subtle changes in direction.

Then suddenly the trumpets sounded again. The herald blew a long note, and before it ended the call was answered by the sound of horns. One… two… three different notes rose in awkward harmony with the trumpet.

And the throng of riders began to separate.

Into halves… into fourths…

Three horns and a trumpet sounded again, and the Rohirrim flocked towards the sounds.

Aragorn marveled. _So this was the division of military command…_

The riders divided. One group veered left at a ninety degree angle, another went right at sixty degrees. The two in the center organized themselves into columns and rode forward.

From his original position in the center, as more and more riders peeled away to follow their immediate lords, Aragorn found himself riding near the front. The protective circle around King Thengal was maybe twenty lengths ahead of him.

Aragorn spared a moment to grasp the proficiency of the Rohirrim. All of this was accomplished without a single horse breaking stride.

Yet even as he marveled, Aragorn's eyes narrowed. The Lord he would have followed… was not currently here. Yet it was Thengel who had given him leave to join the fight, and so it was Thengel he would follow now.

Aragorn squeezed Ulmafan's side with his right leg. The mare danced and sidestepped as she galloped, and crossed the gently widening ravine between the two columns. The move completed, Aragorn reached out to affectionately pat the side of Ulmafan's neck. The mare snorted and maintained her pace, keeping Aragorn always within site of the King.

* * *

Isil was high in the sky. By her timing, it had to have been at least an hour since the Rohirrim separated. Ulmafan was still keeping pace with the children of the Mearas and Aragorn praised her stamina. 

Yet as they rode, Aragorn began to wonder why they had divided. Not even Glorfindel could track his quarry in the dark across rocky terrain at a full gallop, but that's what the men of Rohan seemed to be doing.

With a shake of his head Aragorn shoved his questions out of his mind. Thorongil's place was not to wonder why.

He simply had to follow the King.

* * *

Suddenly the horizon began to grow brighter. It was the wrong time—and direction—for dawn, so that meant only one thing. 

Fire.

Whatever lay just ahead of them… behind the next rise… was burning. A farm? A town? Aragorn couldn't be sure.

Aragorn was close enough to see the King stick out a hand. He watched in fascination as a complex series of gestures apparently signaled to—

The trumpet sounded.

Aragorn couldn't help the grin. Somehow he guessed that Elrond himself would have been impressed.

"Forð Rohirrim!" Thengel shouted to his troops.

The trumpet blared again.

"Forð samod feohtan!"

And that's when Aragorn saw them.

The host of Dunlanders.

Scores of them charged over the outcroppings. Unmounted. Armed with wooden spears and glaives with bronze blades, hidden fires lighting them from behind.

Thengel had ordered the charge and the Rohirrim rode fearlessly towards them. As the Dunlanders ran down the rocky ledges of the outcropping, glaives in front and ready to swing at the legs of the oncoming horses, they released a hellish war cry.

The Rohirrim answered with cries of their own, many of the riders calling out their family name, or the name of their home village.

A wall of noise grew up around Aragorn as the shouts of men bled together with hundreds of unsheathing swords, his own included.

Sword held at the ready Aragorn gave Ulmafan license to choose her own path because as soon as they reached the approaching Dunlanders it would be the horses that were targeted first so as to force their riders to meet their enemy on even ground.

The cries of the Rohirrim resounded in his ears the first wave attempted to vault themselves over the line of oncoming Dunland glaives. Aragorn watched the King and his herald landed beyond the front line with swords swinging, and he saw that a few of his encircling guards weren't so lucky. Horses cried in pain as their legs and underbellies were slashed into; their riders sent flailing but came up swinging just the same.

A heartbeat later and Aragorn felt Ulmafan leap into the air. It was a surreal moment as he felt his body rise with hers, up… up… up over the up-swinging glaives. However it was not the sudden lurching or how the rush of wind momentarily drowned out the sounds of battle that gave the moment its ethereal quality.

When Ulmafan jumped, Aragorn's voice finally joined in the massive war cry, but the sound was swallowed up by the cacophony around him. Even still, his heart was certain that he had screamed:

"ARWEN!"

Ulmafan landed, hard yet safely, and Aragorn was snapped back to reality of the moment.

The reality of war.

Belatedly he swung his sword and severed the business end of a glaive clean off its shaft before it had the chance to cut into Ulmafan's neck.

No sooner had he done that did another one come swinging at them from the opposite side.

It met the same fate as its forerunner. The Dunlander swinging it cursed in a language Aragorn didn't recognize.

For some reason he was oddly used to that.

Suddenly Ulmafan lurched beneath him. Aragorn's eyes widened in alarm as he struggled to stay seated. However, his momentary panic that she had been injured abated as soon as he glanced behind them. Apparently the mare had sensed danger and kicked out with both hind legs. The action nearly bucked a surprised Aragorn off her back, but the Dunlander approaching from behind took two hooves to the chest and went sailing back. Aragorn saw the man fly into a few of his brethren for good measure.

Then a whistling noise off to his right.

Aragorn's eyes widened and he ducked just in time. A glaive sailed mere inches above his head as Aragorn threw his upper body down until his ear nearly grazed Ulmafan's side.

The Dunlander found himself overextended when his attack failed to sever Aragorn's head. This enabled the ranger to reach up with his sword and cleanly sever the glaive head in a strong upswing. The head of the glaive barely missed swiping off the Dunlander's nose as it flew through the air.

The man stood stunned.

That was all Aragorn needed. He reached up and grabbed a hold of the glaive's shaft with his free left hand. The Dunlander barely had time to widen his eyes in surprise as Aragorn used the leverage to hoist himself to sitting again.

In doing so the broken shaft was wrenched out of the Dunlander's hand. Aragorn then swung the shaft back around like a club straight into the man's temple. The man spun from the impact and toppled over.

Aragorn's victory was short lived, however. Suddenly Ulmafan lurched and jerked again. Aragorn was dimly aware of more Dunlanders that were sent flying by the punishment of Ulmafan's merciless hooves as she bucked and danced around. Unfortunately, with his sword in his right hand and the glaive shaft in his left, Aragorn had no free hand with which to hold onto the saddle.

So when one of the stirrup straps snapped from Ulmafan's desperate movements, there was nothing Aragorn could do except pray that he didn't kiss the ground.

The strap snapped and Aragorn's right leg kicked up from the sudden lack of support. He gasped as his body was pitched backwards and to the left with enough force to slide the saddle on Ulmafan's back. The saddle slipped down along the mare's left side, taking a reluctant Aragorn with it.

For the second time in less than a minute, Aragorn found himself in an awkward position along Ulmafan's side. Unfortunately this time, with the saddle still squarely beneath him—and slipping ever so slightly downwards—there was nothing he could use as leverage to right himself.

He was a sitting duck.

Aragorn first thought was to let go with his legs and drop to the ground, but the way the saddle had broken enabled a free strap to secure around his right boot, holding him in place. He would have to cut himself free.

The shaft of the glaive dangled weakly in his left hand, the tip brushing slightly against the ground, and the sword in his right was heavy and awkward to hold from the position he was in. Neither weapon was any use to him like this. He would need to reach his left boot, where the dagger was sheathed.

Aragorn rationed it out in mere seconds as he saw the world through upside-down eyes. He stabbed his sword deliberately into the ground. It was wobbly, but hopefully it would support his weight for a few moments. He dropped the glaive shaft from his left hand and shifted so that he was supporting himself on his sword. The sword sunk into the ground another inch as it bore its master's weight. Aragorn then used the sword to support himself as he loosened the grip of his legs and attempted to pull himself up at the waist, reaching for the boot sheath and the Elven dagger held within.

His hand grasped the hilt just as Ulmafan bucked again. The brave mare was trying to keep the enemy away from her vulnerable master.

Aragorn's grip was wrenched away from his sword.

The sound of snapping leather as Aragorn's body weight pulled his boot free of the strap.

The ranger fell out of the saddle and landed on his shoulders beneath his suddenly rearing mare.

"Dah!"

Aragorn rolled to the side just in time. Ulmafan, in her zeal to protect him, nearly slammed her front hooves into his skull. As it was, she came down barely a foot from him, shifted her body weight, and with an undignified snort shot her back legs out and splayed flat another hapless Dunlander.

Aragorn rolled swiftly to the opposite side to get out from underneath his mare before she had the chance to accidentally trample him.

The roll stopped when his body met the boots of yet another Dunlander.

Aragorn was lying half of his stomach, half on his right side, and completely prone as he stared up, gaping at the glaive raised threateningly above the Dunlander's head. The man spat a curse at Aragorn in his own language as he swung the glaive down.

Aragorn's sword was well out of reach and Ulmafan would be of no help this time.

The glaive sang through the air towards Aragorn's skull when suddenly—

"RAUGH!"

The glaive jounced in the Dunlander's hands as his arms awkwardly aborted their swing. The weapon then tumbled from the man's grasp as his face—at first registering shock but now confusion, turned slowly down…

To see Aragorn's dagger sticking out of his chest, just below the sternum and angled upwards. Buried to the hilt.

Aragorn's face showed the same surprise. Without even thinking, he had risen to one knee and thrust the dagger into his opponent. Blood poured out of the wound and spilt across the hilt, soaking Aragorn's hand.

Warm, red blood.

The blood of a man.

As Aragorn stared dumbly at the sight before him the Dunlander finally stumbled back and off of the dagger blade. He opened his mouth to speak but only gurgling sounds came out, accompanied by bloody spittle. He collapsed to his knees and then pitched forward, landing on his face not a foot away from where Aragorn still knelt.

The body twitched once… and then lay still.

Aragorn's outstretched arm dropped limply to his side, dagger still loosely in his grasp. He sat stiffly down on his ankle as he dropped out of the half-kneel. His eyes were focused on the dead body of the Dunlander… resting close enough to reach out and touch…

"Ai, Valar…" Aragorn breathed, shock warring with disbelief.

It was the first time he had ever taken a human life.

Aragorn sat as the battle raged around him. By now the Rohirrim were mostly horseless and were engaging the Dunlanders in single combat. The battlefield was lit by the glow of hidden fires as Isil continued her nightly ascent into the heavens.

But war waits for no man.

Aragorn was brought harshly back to reality by an angry Dunland shout. His head snapped around to see another Dunlander charging at him, the epitome of berserker rage. He held a spear in his hand, and with an unintelligible shout he launched the projectile at Aragorn's head.

The ranger dove swiftly out of the way, turning a somersault as the spear impacted the earth just behind where he had been sitting. Aragorn came out of the roll next to his sword, and he regained his feet with just enough time to pull the weapon out of the ground and face the attacking Dunlander.

In his fury, the Dunlander sought to tackle Aragorn with his bare hands. He leapt towards him, arms outstretched, calling obscenities that Aragorn guessed would have made a Dwarven miner blush.

It was an easy thing to side-step the attack, and with a casual sweep of his sword…

Spill the man's entrails on the ground.

The Dunlander choked and gasped as he fell face first from his momentum only to land in a growing pool of his own blood… right beside his fallen comrade.

Aragorn watched in a daze as the Dunlander reached a shaky hand out and grabbed his dead comrade's wrist with his last ounce of strength before his fingers slackened.

Bleary eyes strayed from the scene before them to the red-stained blades of both his dagger and sword, and in that instant he understood why the elves held kinslaying in such distain.

And still the battle raged around him.

With dissociated detachment Aragorn bent down and re-sheathed his dagger at his boot. Then he turned, sword in hand, and sought out Ulmafan.

He did not see the dappled mare anywhere.

Though… that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It meant she may yet be alive.

Aragorn did not have time to contemplate it. A group of Dunlanders began to converge on his position. He shifted the grip he had on his sword and braced himself.

"May the Valar forgive me…"

And he met the charge head on.

* * *

Thengel stood his ground. 

His circle of protection had long since shifted through the course of battle. He was still within sight of his guard, but they could not help him.

A Dunland glaive came screaming at his chest.

THUNK!

Thengel pivoted around and absorbed the impact with the shield on his back. Then with a grunt he swung back and brought his sword around in a tight arc, nearly slicing his opponent in two.

A few more red splatters marred his golden helm.

"Thengel Cyning!"

The King whirled around, sword raised, but stopped himself when he recognized one of his riders.

"Where do we stand, Léofa?" Thengel asked him.

"Fengel has taken his column around to the South," the soldier replied. "We've got the Dunlanders pinched between us, but their numbers are greater than we expected and they're holding their own. Our best bet is to route them to the south and pray that Irengrim's contingent didn't bite off more than they could chew at Gustypeak."

The sentence was punctured by the intrusion of attacking Dunlanders. Both Thengel and his informer swung their swords up and into the ready positions.

"Let's hope we get the chance…" Thengel warned when as one the attacking Dunlanders swung their glaives.

Two swords rose together to block them.

CLASH!

* * *

In the beginning Aragorn had been keeping track of the number of men he killed. Something in his subconscious made him treat every single death as though it were of great significance. 

That was… many dead men ago.

Surviving the battle had become more important than keeping tabs.

The Dunlanders' favorite tactic was to hurl spears into the backs of unsuspecting Rohirrim while they dueled against those sporting glaives. So far Aragorn had managed to avoid that fate, credit going to the fact that he did not remain in one place for too long.

The men with glaives were skilled, but tended to rely on superior strength rather than any type of finesse with the weapon. Many swung them as oversized clubs with deadly accuracy, hacking off limbs in a bloody swath of frenzied destruction.

Impressive only at first, Aragorn quickly noticed that they often telegraphed the nature of their strike with their eyes. This made their moves easy to anticipate, and thusly avoid. The Dunlanders, not used to completely missing their targets, would often overextend themselves with the force of their swings. They would be off balance and unable to defend themselves, which made Aragorn's job tactically easy. Many Dunlanders died before they ever realized what went wrong.

One such berserker was the next to attack.

Aragorn turned when he heard the war cry—that was something else about the Dunlanders, they always gave warning to their attacks.

The Dunlander came charging in, glaive twirling.

Aragorn easily blocked the swing, his sword grinding against the shaft of the glaive until it hit the bronze of the blade.

The two weapons locked together.

Two sets of eyes locked together.

One dispassionate, the other greedily determined.

The dispassionate eyes hardened as their owner swiftly swung his sword around.

The determined eyes faltered in surprise as their owner found his glaive suddenly enveloped by his opponent's blade and torn from his hands.

They followed it as it flew through the air and landed ten paces away to skip and skid across the rocky ground.

The last thing they saw was a bloodstained blade, and then they saw no more.

Aragorn pulled his sword out of the Dunlander's chest and took momentary stock of the battle. Both sides still appeared to be holding their own against each other, and the bodies of the dead littered the ground. Above them, Isil had reached her zenith, and behind them whatever was burning… was burning brighter.

Aragorn did not spare the time or energy to sigh as he returned his thoughts to the moment.

Another Dunlander charged him.

Aragorn easily sidestepped.

The Dunlander went storming past, stopped short, and whirled angrily around to face his quarry, glaive held high.

CRACK!

The head of the glaive was severed three quarters of the way up the shaft…

Because that spot was parallel to the Dunlander's neck.

The head of a glaive and the head of a man fell unceremoniously to the ground at the feet of the ranger, who palmed a hand across his face to wipe the blood spay out of his eyes.

His hand came away red.

The sight was still jarring, and Aragorn reflexively shuddered.

Then suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and a slight rushing sound reached his ears.

Aragorn didn't waste the time to gasp as he spun and brought his sword up—

SMACK!

Just in time to swat at a spear aimed straight at his heart. The projectile careened off his blade and fell to the ground mere feet away from its intended target.

Aragorn sucked in a deep breath, eyes darting back and forth frantically in search of the Dunlander who threw it.

All he saw… were men. Lots of men, fighting to the death in this epic battle beneath the stars and bathed in the ever-present light of a little piece of Rohan that lay burning beyond the rise.

Aragorn's eyes momentarily focused on the ash that had begun to waft in their direction, taken in by a change in the wind.

His eyes widened suddenly when his focus shifted. Directly beyond the flecks of ash that caught his attention, a soldier of Rohan was doing his best to keep two different glaive-wielding Dunlanders at bay. The man was doing well, but was gaining no ground as he struggled to block blows with both the shield at his back and the sword in his hand.

Aragorn's eyes frantically swept the ground…

_There! _

Not six paces away was the spear he had just batted down. Aragorn ran towards it and vaulted into a somersault over a low sweeping glaive that suddenly tried to cut his legs out from underneath him.

Aragorn intentionally dropped his sword as he rolled. He came up in a tight squat with both hands securely holding the spear.

The Dunlander angrily swung his glaive down.

Aragorn raised the spear like a quarterstaff and blocked the incoming blow.

Aragorn struggled to push against the Dunlander, who was leaning all of his weight into his glaive, which was pressing down upon the pilfered spear.

The bronze blade of the glaive inched closer to Aragorn's head.

The Dunlander grinned venomously in anticipation.

Aragorn grit his teeth and shoved back with all his might, finally managing to pinwheel the spear around the shaft of the glaive.

The Dunlander gaped slack-jawed in surprise when the spear suddenly came to rest atop the glaive's bronze blade. Then in one motion Aragorn lunged to the side and used his momentum to propel the blade into the ground.

Reflexively the Dunlander let go. He stood up and backed away a pace before it occurred to him that he was now weaponless. Meanwhile Aragorn transferred the spear into his left hand, grabbed his dagger from his boot sheath with his right, aimed at the still startled Dunlander, and let the dagger fly.

It imbedded itself up to the hit in the man's thick, muscular neck. Blood exploded from the wound and the man gurgled before falling over.

Aragorn didn't notice.

By the time the dead Dunlander hit the ground he had already regained his feet, tossed the spear into his right hand, gauged its weight, and aimed it like a javelin. At precisely the right moment he threw the projectile and watched it soar thirty paces through the air and impale another Dunlander through the back.

It was one of the men double-teaming the soldier of Rohan, and he collapsed to his knees as death stole his disbelief.

This distracted his compatriot long enough for the soldier to land a killing blow, and the two Dunlanders now lay dead at his feet. The man looked up from their bodies and out across the battlefield, searching for the one who aided him.

Aragorn was already busy retrieving his dagger from a dead man's neck. He didn't see the wizened eyes of the King rest knowingly on him a moment, in gratitude.

Aragorn re-sheathed his dagger again, although this time he did take the time to hastily wipe the blade on the clothes of the man he had killed with it. Then he hurriedly stood, and sought to retrieve his sword.

It was resting exactly where he left it.

Another Dunlander charged, determined that he wouldn't reach it.

Aragorn gasped breathlessly and dodged. The glaive came at him in slicing motions, singing through the air with lethal precision.

Aragorn back-peddled as his opponent advanced, dodged left… right… jumped back… ducked under… jumped above the slicing glaive.

The Dunlander growled in frustration that he couldn't hit the nimble ranger, whose Elven upbringing was shining through.

Suddenly Aragorn's back hit up against something hard. He had just run out of room.

The Dunlander grinned menacingly and swung his glaive in for a decapitating blow.

Aragorn's eyes widened and he dropped instantly to his knees. The glaive sailed above his head and imbedded into whatever it was that had stopped his retreat.

The Dunlander struggled free his glaive.

Aragorn wasn't about to give him the opportunity. He shifted quickly from his keeling position and swept a leg out, knocking the Dunlander's feet out from underneath him. The man toppled over and hit the ground hard on his rear.

Aragorn shot to his feet, wrapped both hands around the glaive handle, gave a mighty tug and—

CHINK!

Pulled the glaive free.

The Dunlander's eyes widened in alarm only to freeze that was as Aragorn swung the glaive in and parted the man's head from his shoulders. A fountain of blood rose up as the man and his head went tumbling away.

Aragorn stared at the glaive momentarily in disgust before casting it quickly aside.

He needed to retrieve his sword.

Aragorn smiled in relief when he noticed that it was still resting where he'd left it, barely ten paces away from where he now stood. However, before he rushed to get it, he turned around to see what it was he had run into.

He gaped at what he saw.

It was a tree. A stunted, nearly branchless evergreen, growing defiantly in the middle of the field.

_Just like the one near…_

"No!" Aragorn gasped, the denial wrenching its way from the depth of his soul. "No, by Ilúvatar!" Aragorn ran forward, grabbed his sword on the way, and continued on at a dead sprint across the field of battle. He darted around combatants and jumped over dead bodies as he ran up the incline that none of the Rohirrim had yet been able to ascend.

When at last he reached the summit, panting, breathless, he looked out across the vast expanses of the plains beyond…

And the sword clattered out of his hand.

He hadn't recognized where he was before. It was dark, and he'd been uncertain of their route, and even of the distance they'd traveled.

Aragorn knew those things now though—was sure of them beyond a shadow of a doubt, for on the plains stretching out before him sat the small farming town of Strathcomb. The town's farmland and pastures sprawled outwards from the modest buildings. The meeting Hall sat proudly just off of center, the tallest structure next to the small, winding row of farm venders' stands that ended near the front gate of the little schoolhouse just down the way from Folca's homestead. Beyond that and not visible from his current vantage point sat the modest house he shared with Lindewyn, who would have long since retired by this time of night.

There before his eyes Aragorn recognized the town he claimed as home, but the anguish in his soul couldn't overcome the lump in his throat and so he could only look on in silence.

As the town of Strathcomb burned.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Béma_: The Vala Oromë

_Ic becuman, Lindewyn_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): I'm coming (lit: I come), Lindewyn.

_Mae govannen_: well met

_Éored_: a Lord of Rohan's loyal soldiers.

_Isil_: the moon

_Mearas_: horses of the kings of Rohan

_Forð Rohirrim_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): Forward Rohirrim

_Forð samod feohtan_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): Forward (we) fight together

_Eru_: Ilúvatar, aka God

_Thengel Cyning_: Thengel King


	15. Ch 10b: Thorongil's reckoning, part 2

Aragorn could not believe his eyes. Every last building was engulfed. The flames burned down the narrow streets brighter than daylight. Nothing was spared, and by the end, nothing would be left. While he had lost Imladris over a year ago, he hadn't _lost_ it. Not like this. _Nothing_ could have prepared him for the sight that was literally burning itself into his memory right now.

"Mar-nin…" he lamented, his voice failing to register with his own ears, whatever emotions contained therein falling short of recognition. Instead, an odd sort of numbness crept over his limbs and settled into his soul. In that moment he knew, without thought or explanation, that everything he loved—the last shreds of all he held dear—had been cruelly ripped away. If Thorongil had been the final struggle of a broken man, then the shards of him scattered now, so much like the ash that fluttered before his leaden eyes.

"Lindewyn…" A muted plea, the last breath of a man whose life had turned to smoke and ash.

Then suddenly his gaze, which had been fixed on Strathcomb, was drawn to the fields on the far side. A host of men with glaives and spears were being routed into the heart of the burning village by mounted archers. Aragorn's eyes widened as he realized that this must have been the second column that had mostly followed the king. Aragorn allowed himself a moment to feel the grim satisfaction of knowing that the cowards who torched his beloved town were now dying a coward's death as they were shot in the back by the red-fletched arrows of the Rohirrim, who must have been trying to pinch the scattered bands of Dunlanders between their superior forces.

The lost expression on Aragorn's face contorted into a feral grin as he slipped the toe of his boot beneath the blade of his previously forgotten sword and kicked upwards, sending the hilt up to meet his hand. As much as he wanted to charge head-long into the streets of Strathcomb, Aragorn knew better than to throw himself into the path of the oncoming archers. Instead he took one last longing look at his former home and then swiftly turned his back to it. The battle still raged at the base of the embankment, and with a guttural cry Aragorn leapt back into the fray.

He had barely returned to even footing when a pair of combatants stumbled through his path. A Dunlander was wielding a spear like a quarterstaff against a young soldier of Rohan who obviously had no experience in fighting an opponent thus armed. Aragorn wasted no time in stabbing the unsuspecting Dunlander through the back until the tip of his sword protruded through the man's chest. The soldier nearly dropped his own sword in surprise as Aragorn kicked the dead man off of his blade.

"Where is the King?" Aragorn demanded.

The soldier managed a shrug before they were both interrupted by an incoming Dunland warrior swinging a glaive. Aragorn swiftly turned and raised his sword, blocking the swing above their heads. This exposed the man's chest and the soldier took full advantage of the moment by spilling the man's entrails upon the ground with one arcing diagonal swipe of his sword. The Dunlander fell forward and Aragorn leapt over him, leaving the soldier to his own devices once more. He needed to find King Thengel, and tell him what he saw.

Aragorn ran back into the heart of the battle, scanning everywhere for a sight of the King, or his herald, or anyone wearing the colors of his personal guard.

His first interruption was the war cry of a Dunlander, and Aragorn turned just in time to see and then duck a glaive that meant to decapitate him. He dropped to his knees just in time, and then kicked out a leg in a sweeping motion that knocked the Dunlander's feet out from under him. The man went toppling over and landed on his back just as Aragorn stood up again. Fierce brown eyes barely registered their reality as Aragorn drove his sword down through the man's chest. The Dunlander tensed, arms and legs jutting out as his own blood choked back his scream, but by then Aragorn had already forgotten him. He pulled out his sword, and continued his search for the King.

Twenty paces to his left Aragorn thought he spotted Thengel's standard-barer, the flag of Rohan long abandoned in favor of a sword in the youth's hands. He was locked in single combat with a Dunlander who had managed to steal the sword of a deceased soldier of Rohan. Aragorn's eyes burned with renewed hatred as he began the process of fighting his way over to the pair.

Aragorn managed four paces before another Dunlander stepped into his path, twirling his glaive in an impressive display of arrogance. The glaive slashed back and forth in sweeping arcs that seemed to dance before his eyes as the Dunlander smiled through his blatant attempt at intimidation.

Aragorn unabashedly snaked his sword between the loose yet impressive-looking defenses and skewered the man in the gut. The man dropped his glaive in surprise and Aragorn ripped his sword back out again. The force of his reverse thrust gave him extra momentum when the blade slipped free and Aragorn gracefully spun around to block the next attempt on his life.

Another glaive swung in and Aragorn raised his sword to block its bronze blade. The Dunlander shifted his grip on the shaft and then yanked on it. The blade of Aragorn's sword got caught in the serrated edge of the glaive and it was torn out of his hands. It sailed through the air and clanged to the ground several paces away.

The Dunlander grinned, rolling his neck slightly above broad shoulders and palming his glaive in a two-handed grip.

Aragorn tensed, awaiting the inevitable attack.

He wasn't disappointed.

The Dunlander swung the glaive in an arcing sweep down towards Aragorn's left shoulder. Aragorn bent quickly backwards at the waist and twisted to the right in time to see the glaive sail over his head.

When the weapon finished its pass—and the Dunlander had overextended himself in the near-miss—Aragorn dropped awkwardly down to his right hand and kicked up with his left leg. The Dunlander had barely avoiding having his glaive embed itself in the dirt when Aragorn's boot connected painfully with his chin. His head snapped back and he stumbled as Aragorn followed through with his rotation and landed on his feet in a low squat.

He shot up to standing just as the Dunlander was trying to right himself, and Aragorn used his upward momentum as he cupped his right hand over his left and swung his arms upwards like a club. He caught the Dunlander on the side of the face and the force of the impact spun him completely around before dropping him out cold.

Aragorn kicked the glaive up into his hands and held it with intent but the sight of the unarmed, unconscious man stayed his swing. He threw the glaive down in disgust—mostly at himself and what he'd nearly done, and went to retrieve his sword.

When he had his sword in hand again, his eyes scanned the battlefield for the standard barer, but he saw no traces of him.

Off to his right, another soldier of Rohan just felled his opponent.

"Where is the King?" Aragorn shouted to him.

"Behind you!" the soldier shouted back.

Confused, Aragorn spun around. Unfortunately the soldier's cry was not an answer but a warning. Aragorn's eyes widened as he managed to barely raise his sword to block the downward swipe of a glaive. From this position Aragorn had no leverage and the serrated bronze blade of the glaive was inching closer and closer to his throat. Out of options, Aragorn resorted to the only course of action he could think of.

He dropped to his knees.

The Dunlander's weight carried him forward, and he found himself toppling over. Aragorn curled into a ball and shoved himself forward off the balls of his feet and this act, combined with the Dunlander's momentum, sent the man tumbling over Aragorn, who deliberately cut his roll short. He grabbed the nearest weapon—which happened to be the Dunlander's glaive—and scrambled to his feet.

Aragorn found himself once again standing over the prone body of his opponent, only this time the man was conscious. Their eyes locked, panicked brown to panicked gray, right before Aragorn swung the glaive down and severed the Dunlander's head. He left the glaive sticking awkwardly out of the ground and went to retrieve his sword again.

He was still no closer to finding the King.

Then suddenly a loud cry sounded behind him.

Aragorn spun around and saw another band of Dunlanders, at least a hundred strong, running full tilt across the plains, carrying long torches and swinging glaives, shouting war cries in their own tongue. Their brethren still standing in this fight raised their voices in an answering cry, and the men of Rohan felt the sinking realization that they were about to be overrun.

"Fall back!" Aragorn shouted at the top of his lungs. "Fall back to the village! Our own reinforcements are in the village FALL BACK!"

A few of the soldiers within earshot gave Aragorn incredulous looks while most others were still too busy fighting their Dunland foes. Aragorn paid them no heed, however. In a few moments the approaching host would be upon them. He took off in a run across the battlefield.

"Fall back to the village! Meet up with our own reinforcements! FALL BACK! FALL BACK!" Aragorn ran around combating pairs, ducking the odd glaive swing and leaping over fallen bodies as he shouted his warning.

Suddenly Aragorn was snagged by the collar of his tunic. He was pulled out of his trajectory and yanked around to come face to face with the standard barer he's sought earlier.

"Who are you to give orders for the King?"

"I have seen a division of Riders enter the town," Aragorn replied, panting, out of breath. "They have archers; they were killing all foes in their path. If we stay here we'll be slaughtered, we must regroup!"

An aged soldier suddenly grabbed Aragorn by the other arm, redirecting his vision again. "Do you speak truth?"

"I have seen them with my own eyes," Aragorn replied desperately. "There, beyond the rise."

The soldier leveled Aragorn with a scrutinizing gaze, sizing him up for all he was worth. Apparently he was satisfied with what he saw.

"Where is Hagar?" he asked the standard barer.

"Hagar has fallen! I don't know who—"

THWACK!

Aragorn and the soldier gasped and jumped back as the standard barer's response was cut off by the burning spear that skewered through his back and stuck through the front of his armor. Whatever dying cries he might have made were obscured by the angry cackle of the flames that swiftly engulfed his body.

Those long torches were flaming spears, and the Dunland army was within range.

"Find Hagar's horn!" the old soldier cried. "Find Hagar's horn and sound the retreat!" And he ran off, much as Aragorn had done, crying out for whoever had Hagar's horn.

Hagar must have been Thengel's herald.

Aragorn tasted bile in the back of his throat as he tore his eyes away from the charring carcass of the standard barer. He needed to find whoever had the herald's horn and get them to sound the retreat.

When Aragorn looked up he saw that many more bodies lay burning on the ground, long shafts stuck into them at odd angles. What soldiers of Rohan were left were locked in combat with the men of Dunland, sometimes double and triple teamed. In one sweeping gaze Aragorn saw three of his comrades fall beneath bronze-bladed glaives.

And then the host descended.

With a guttural cry, the battlefield was overrun. The host of Dunlanders broke upon it like a tidal wave. Aragorn hefted his sword but didn't have time to offer an errant prayer to the Valar before he found himself engaged.

A glaive swung towards Aragorn's head. Aragorn ducked, raising his sword in the process.

Metal scraped against metal, bronze against Elven steel.

The Dunlander shoved and Aragorn allowed himself to lose his footing. He collapsed back onto his bottom as the Dunlander grinned triumphantly, raising his glaive in preparation for the killing blow.

That grin was washed off his face by the startled cry that gurgled from his throat. Aragorn had collapsed down into a position that allowed him to reach his boot dagger, which he threw with all his might into the Dunlander's chest. Blood dribbled over the man's lips as he stumbled forward, and Aragorn hastily scrambled out of the way. In the next instant he was removing his dagger from a dead man's chest.

Aragorn stood, dagger clutched as firmly as possible in his left hand, and sword swinging easily in his right. For once he was grateful to his shoulder injury last winter, because now he was able to wield his sword one-handed. Thusly armed, he sidestepped into his next conflict.

A glaive was poised to cleave him in two.

Aragorn blocked with his sword and shoved upwards, raising the glaive—and thusly his opponent's arms—until he had a clean view of the man's unprotected midsection. Then with his left hand he thrust the dagger forward and embedded it up to its hilt in flesh. He ripped upwards as he removed the blade and the man whined in the back of his throat before spitting up blood and crashing to the ground.

Once again Aragorn's hands felt warm and sticky with edain blood. The fresh sight and scent of it threatened to make him nauseous except then the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he dropped to his knees just in time to avoid decapitation. In that same motion he raised his sword, and as the Dunlander committed himself to the swing he bent forward as there was nothing solid to stop his glaive's momentum. The man's angry brown eyes widened in surprise when he found that he'd bent too far and so impaled himself on Aragorn's sword. The glaive clattered out of his hands as gravity sunk him a few more inches onto the sword, the tip of which now protruded through the man's back. Surprised brown eyes registered first shock, then pain, and at last fear as he slid another inch. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then suddenly his body went slack and Aragorn cried out as the dead weight pitched forward. Aragorn rolled to the side as the man's body hit the ground. The man's nose was mere inches away from his own, and Aragorn found himself staring into cold, lifeless brown eyes forever frozen.

Aragorn shoved himself back quickly, scrambling to his hands and knees. Then he heard a scraping sound behind him and out of instinct he thrust his dagger backwards over his head. The grating sound of metal scraping bone met his ears along with the strangled shout as the Dunlander he'd caught in the knee went tumbling forward to land sprawled across the body of his comrade. Aragorn quickly struggled to his feet, afraid of a return attack, but then he saw the growing pool forming around the two Dunlanders and he realized that the man had impaled himself on his own glaive.

As the blood spread across the dirt in the flickering orange glow of torchlight it seemed to change colors from red to brown to black and back again, as though it couldn't decide if it belonged to orc or man or goblin and despite the danger Aragorn felt his stomach lurch and he would have doubled over except that in that instant a horn blast split the night.

Aragorn immediately snapped to attention, his eyes searching for the horn blower. He didn't find him, but he heard the call again. One long, low note that seemed to violently cut out at the end. With a sickening realization Aragorn knew that whoever had the misfortune of inheriting the herald's position had just been killed for it.

That mattered little right now though, because suddenly the men of Rohan were running for the embankment and the burning Strathcomb beyond.

"The retreat has been sounded!" one of them shouted. "Head for the village!"

Aragorn couldn't help the smile that broke across his face. His message had gotten through! With an almost childlike glee—that was very inappropriate for this time and place, its owner knew, but in that moment couldn't quite bring himself to care, Aragorn stooped to remove his sword and dagger from the bodies of the dead. He sheathed his dagger but kept his sword in hand as he made ready to run.

"Come! The retreat has sounded!" Another young soldier went running past Aragorn, encouraging him with a wildly waving hand. Aragorn fell into step behind him as he joined the mad dash up the embankment towards Strathcomb.

"They are saying we have reinforcements!" the soldier shouted.

"We do," Aragorn confirmed as he followed, perhaps eight paces behind the soldier. "I have seen them!"

"I knew this day was not lost!" the soldier exclaimed in his joy, just as Aragorn felt the rush of heated air.

"Duck!" he cried out, eyes wide in terror, as a burning spear soared mere inches above his head and—

THWACK!

Impaled the soldier between the shoulder blades. The soldier stumbled forward and Aragorn had to leap or else trip over him. The poor youth's back was already beginning to burn and the scent of burn flesh finally registered with Aragorn's nostrils. His sword suddenly felt heavy in his hand as he turned his back on the body and continued his run up the hill.

The sight from the top of the rise was staggering. A host of Rohirrim was battling the Dunlanders in the city streets as buildings belched flames and debris rained down around them.

"Elbereth…" Aragorn breathed, but already other soldiers were charging past him, down into Strathcomb to join the battle.

Aragorn tightened his grip on his sword, and charged off after them.

A contingent of Dunlanders moved forward to meet the charge of incoming Rohorrim head on. Aragorn found himself in the direct path of a glaive swinging down at his knees. He leapt high in the air over the glaive and swung his sword out blindly behind him. There was a loud howl as his blade struck flesh and the nimble ex-ranger pivoted mid-air as he landed in time to see a Dunlander clutching madly at the side of his face as blood was gushing freely.

Aragorn had sliced off the man's ear.

The man had dropped his glaive and was blindly lurching forward on unsteady legs in a haze of anger and pain. Aragorn stood transfixed, unsure of himself as a laugh bubbled in his throat at the sight of it. Part of his brain assured him that he was going mad.

Then suddenly a war cry off to his right.

Aragorn spun around, belatedly raising his blade to block an incoming glaive, but suddenly the man toppled over sideways. Blood gushed forth, streaking stains on Aragorn's already ruined tunic. When the man hit the dirt, his head came to rest awkwardly above the spear that suddenly replaced most of the tendons in his neck.

The moment was so surreal that Aragorn was barely aware of his sword arm coming up. Something inside of him was still clinging to reality, and that something caused his warrior's reflexes to respond and run his sword through the gut of the angry one-eared Dunlander, who had reclaimed his glaive and was lumbering towards him with thoughts of revenge.

Aragorn turned to see the man impaled on his sword and, as he stared into angry brown eyes that rolled over to mere slips of dull glass, he briefly marveled at how he got there. He dropped his sword arm and the man slid off his blade, landing in a crumpled heap by Aragorn's feet.

"That makes us even," he heard a voice off to his right.

Aragorn involuntarily raised his sword again, but his hand was stayed by the sight of King Thengel, bloodied but still standing. Aragorn opened his mouth to respond but he was so startled that no actual sound came out.

"No armor, no shield, and yet I find you still standing," the King continued, smiling. "It seems your luck has followed you from the Midwinter War, young Thorongil."

A loud crash behind them diverted their attention. Both men whirled around, swords raised, in time to see a building fully collapse, flames flashing brightly in a geyser before collapsing in on themselves in a ball of fire that lashed out at the buildings around them. When Aragorn flinched, squinting his eyes and averting his gaze, he caught sight of the charred remains of another structure, not ten paces away.

A picnic table.

"That had been Folca's house," Aragorn said plainly as he returned his stare to what was left of the building that had just collapsed. He felt the King stiffen beside him.

"So it was," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Come! We shall make them pay for every building!"

The King turned easily from the sight that had so captivated Aragorn and went charging back into the fight. Aragorn gasped and quickly followed. King Thengel was without his guard.

A glaive came screaming for Thengel's helm.

The King easily ducked it and slashed his sword straight up.

The glaive head fell away, severed clean off the shaft, and the King wasted no time in running the startled man through.

Another foe charged for the King, but he didn't see Aragorn's hasty approach from the side. Thengel raised his sword to block the man's glaive, but suddenly the attacker stopped short. Thengel ripped the glaive out of the Dunlander's hands and used it to sever his head. As the headless body fell forward Thengel saw that it fell off of Thorongil's sword. Aragorn had impaled the man through his side, stopping his charge at the King.

King Thengel cast down the Dunlander's glaive, nodding once to Aragorn.

Aragorn nodded back, raising his sword in acknowledgement of the King.

King Thengel raised his sword in return salute, and together the two men turned as one and charged back into the fray.

A band of Dunlanders came around a burning corner and rushed to engage the two enemy men.

Aragorn and the King swiftly pivoted and stood back to back, swords ready, as their attackers came at them.

Aragorn blocked a glaive with his sword and kicked out with his left leg, striking another Dunlander in the groin. That man howled as Aragorn stood straight again, unsheathing his dagger before he put his foot down.

Then suddenly he was aware of what Thengel was doing behind him. He launched himself backwards, lifting up with his sword so that the glaive entangled by his blade was shoved violently away. His landed on his back atop a stooped over Thengel as the King had crouched down to allow the move. He slid and spun so that he was facing forwards when he regained his feet, and Thengel beneath him had pivoted in the opposite direction. When both men stood again on even ground, they had effectively changed partners.

Aragorn took advantage of the surprised Dunlanders before him. He threw his dagger into the chest of one of them while slashing madly with his sword against another. The poor Dunlander wasn't used to having to use his glaive to block attacks, and Aragorn swiftly penetrated his meager defenses and stabbed him through the heart. He ripped his sword out violently, using the extra kick of momentum from the instant the blade pulled free to spin himself around and stab a third Dunlander in the gut. That man pitched forward onto the blade with extra force and Aragorn nearly stumbled beneath the weight of him. He dropped to a knee and from that position he saw the point of another sword protruding from the man's chest.

Thengel had stabbed him in the back, at the very same instant Aragorn's sword had pierced his belly.

When the King ripped his sword away, the friction caused the dead man to lose some ground on Aragorn's blade. Aragorn climbed to his feet and pulled his sword free, and the Dunlander crashed to the ground between him and the King.

"I learned that move in Gondor," Thengel announced, quite pleased. Aragorn noticed that the King had dispatched the two Dunlanders he had abandoned when they switched opponents. Five dead men littered the ground.

"My sword master showed it to me," Aragorn replied, fond thoughts of Glorfindel flooding his heart for once without pain. "But I know he's fought for Gondor before." _In the wars with Angmar_, Aragorn added silently.

"Very good," the King appraised, startling Aragorn out of his mini-reverie. "But come! We have many more foes to slay before Strathcomb is avenged."

Aragorn didn't need to be told twice.

Together he and Thengel fought side by side, back to back, through the burning streets of Strathcomb. Each found in the other a capable counterpart, able to anticipate the other's moves and intercept blades the other could not reach. Aragorn lost count of how many times King Thengel saved his life, not knowing that the King behind him felt likewise. The tale of their success was told by the bodies of Dunland warriors that littered the streets of Strathcomb in their wake.

They now found themselves standing alone in an empty street as fires burned hotter than hell around them. Thengel leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees.

"Is that it then?" he asked, panting.

The smoke was thick and black in Aragorn's eyes, and it stank of charred flesh—a scent that forever stained his memory since the Midwinter War. The street they were standing in was unrecognizable to him now, as the buildings caved in and sent burning chunks of wall and roof into the road.

"I don't know, sire," Aragorn choked out, gagging, struggling to suck enough air into his lungs. He glanced up, absently seeking starlight, but all that met his teary eyes was smoke and flame.

Then suddenly a loud crack above them.

Aragorn gasped. "Sire!" And he dove forward, bodily shoving Thengel out of the way as an entire building front reigned burning debris down upon them. He heard the King's startled yell as he knocked him to the ground. His position was awkward and hurried but he managed to pin the King protectively beneath him as fire seemed to fall from the heavens.

"_A Elbereth Gilthoniel!_" Aragorn cried as he clutched his own head in his hands, trying to protect himself as much as he could from the onslaught. "_O menel palan-díriel, le nallon sí di'ngruthos! A tíro met!_"

Then as abruptly as it started, the rain of fire ended. Aragorn gradually loosened his death grip on his head and looked up. The fires had died down some, but there were flaming remains littering the ground all around them. Miraculously, aside from a few burns, Aragorn was unscathed.

Then his eyes widened.

"Sire!"

He scrambled off the prone form of King Thengel, who gasped mightily when Aragorn's weight was removed from his chest. His eyes widened as he struggled to bring his breathing under control again, and when his vision adjusted to the sudden harshness of the firelight the first thing his saw was Aragorn's giddily smiling face. The ranger was sitting back on his heels, hands resting on his knees, and simply beside himself that they had managed to survive what he was certain would have been their deaths.

The King shoved himself into a sitting position. "Well Thorongil, it appears as though I am once again in your debt." Thengel sounded more amused than anything else.

Aragorn's grin didn't falter as he rocked back onto his feet and stood up. He offered his hand to the King, which was readily taken. Thengel found himself grinning alongside Thorongil as he found his feet again.

"Tell me, what was that thing you shouted just now?"

Aragorn's grin faltered. "Oh that," he said dismissively. "A prayer to Elbereth. It seems that the Star-Kindler was feeling generous."

Thengel gave Aragorn a scrutinizing gaze. The name Elbereth was familiar to him from his time in Gondor when curiosity led him to dusty tomes in forgotten corners of old libraries, where the literature on elves was kept.

"Let us hope she stays that way," Thengel declared, dismissing whatever thoughts had formed concerning Thorongil and his Elven nature. "We must flee, before the fires trap us in Strathcomb permanently."

Aragorn nodded gravely and then followed the King as Thengel ran down the block, belatedly sheathing his sword in the process. Somewhere along the line he noticed that their tandem fighting had led them into the very center of the town. Now each way out was just as long as the next, and fraught with equal dangers.

Suddenly their path narrowed into a wall of burning debris, man-high.

"This way!" Aragorn shouted, doubling back and turning left to dart down a slide street.

"Wait!" Thengel called out after him. He caught Aragorn roughly by the neck of his tunic and jumped back, a flailing Aragorn in tow. They both landed hard on their backsides in time for a collapsing building to finish its domino effect as a burning swath of ground materialized along the length of the side street. It was impossible to run across.

"I think we're even again," Aragorn mused dazedly as he stared ahead into the flames.

Thengel grunted non-committed as he struggled to his feet. Aragorn scrambled to join him.

"This is your town," said Thengel. "Which way?"

Aragorn spun himself in a quick circle. There were no recognizable landmarks left, just rows and rows of flames.

"We have no choice but to double back," Aragorn declared. He turned around and ran back down the way they came with Thengel following close behind.

The flames were hot and burning ever closer to the street as Aragorn and the King ran back through Strathcomb, trying to find another way out. Then suddenly he tripped, stumbling forward into the dirt-paved street. He braced himself on his hands, but that wasn't enough to stop his momentum and the side of his face scrapped the ground. Aragorn gave a muted cry and rolled over, hand scrambling to his hip where he'd sheathed his sword as he spun around to see what had tripped him.

A body.

"Thorongil?"

King Thengel realized that Aragorn was no longer beside him and so turned around to see what was keeping man.

Aragorn paid him no heed as he crawled on elbows and knees over to the body, which was lying face down in the dirt, a fountain of blond hair flowing about the head, matted in some places with blood. Aragorn flipped the body over and discovered it belonged to a young soldier of Rohan who had somehow lost his helm in the course of battle. He had a long gash across his chest from a Dunland glaive. His face was smooth and pale and Aragorn wondered if he was even old enough to shave, let alone swing a blade.

That's when Aragorn realized that this boy was no soldier. It was Isenhorn, the baker's son, who had not yet seen his sixteenth winter.

Aragorn's cry of denial was loud and piercing, ripped from his soul to reach faraway ears above the cackle of flames and the clash of metal. He had the boy clutched to his chest as he knelt in the burning street, his dreaded suspicions at last confirmed.

There had been no warning. The people were still in their homes, most of them asleep in their beds, when the Dunlanders came.

"Thorongil?"

The King was standing beside him now, a rough hand resting on his shoulder, but Aragorn didn't notice it. He was too busy reliving the moment when Folca's house had collapsed, wondering if Hilde had still been inside it, with Eomund and little Bretta…

"Thorongil, we must—"

But the King was cut off by a loud crash. A large form blundered through the front of a burning building, staggering towards them. It was a Dunlander, large and angry, clothes singed in many places. The bronze blade of his glaive was glowing gold from the heat.

Thengel spun quickly and drew his sword.

Aragorn tried to stand, but the body gathered in his arms was suddenly leaden, and his limbs wouldn't obey his commands. He could only watch, detached, helpless, as the King faced down the Dunlander.

The Dunlander roared and swung his glaive.

Thengel raised his sword and blocked.

The Dunlander pressed down into the blow and Thengel grit his teeth. The two combatants spun in a slow circle, locked blade to blade, eye to eye.

The King suddenly wrenched his sword to the right, shoving upwards against the glaive. The Dunlander spun out slightly, swaying violently to maintain his balance.

Thengel pressed his advantage, swinging his sword in. The Dunlander brought his glaive around to block, and now their roles were reversed.

From where he sat on the ground, Aragorn knew that he should get up and join the fight—that he couldn't just sit there and watch as the King fought for their lives alone, but his arms could not move the body from his lap, nor could he will his legs to stand. It was as though he had traveled outside of his body and was watching the fight desperately through another man's eyes.

In the burning streets of Strathcomb, something of Aragorn was broken that night.

Meanwhile the Dunlander finally managed to overpower the King. Thengal's blade was shoved up and back, and then the King went spiraling away with it. Knocked off balance, he nearly fell, but that was all the advantage the Dunlander needed. He swung his glaive in for the killing blow, and when Thengel raised his sword to block the angle was so awkward that the force of the glaive caused Thengel's sword to clatter out of his hand and he was knocked down onto his knees. The great King Thengel knelt before his enemy at last, and prepared to meet his death head on.

Finally Aragorn's stupor was lifted, it seemed, by the sound of his own screams.

The Dunlander grinned down evilly at his fallen enemy and twirled his glaive, bringing it high above his head in preparation for the killing blow. Thengel had just accepted that he was to meet his death in Strathcomb when his limp fingers suddenly brushed against something hard.

Elven steel.

Aragorn might not have been able to will himself to stand and fight, but he did manage to tear his sword free of the frog at his hip and send it skidding across the dirt-paved street. Its hilt sailed cleanly into Thengel's hand and the King recognized what it was in the instant that the glaive began its downward arc. Thengel shot to his feet, sword firmly in hand, and buried the blade deep in Dunlander's chest. Aragorn watched as the glaive jounced in the man's hands before clanging to the ground, his arms falling to loosely hug the King before Thengel ripped the sword free and stepped back out of the deadly embrace. The Dunlander slipped down and landed face first in the dirt at Thengal's feet.

The King spared the corpse only a passing glance before hastily retrieving his own sword and jogging back to where Aragorn still sat in the middle of the street.

"Are you injured, Thorongil?" he asked. Aragorn was very pale, and he still hadn't gotten up.

"I—" But Aragorn's voice faltered. He stared up at the King, helpless.

Thengel sheathed his own sword and then reached down with his free hand. He grabbed Aragorn by the front of his tunic, and with a stiff grunt, hoisted the taller man to his feet. Aragorn wobbled a bit and had to put his hand on Thengel's shoulder a moment for support, but he eventually he found his legs again. When at last he was steady, Thengel him handed back his sword.

"That's a fine blade," he said approvingly as Aragorn grabbed the hilt.

More of the fog left Aragorn's eyes as he studied the sword, and the bloodstains covering it. Reality came crashing back, harsh and loud and clear.

And red.

"You should see my other one."

The cryptic remark earned Aragorn an amused chuckle from the King as he sheathed his sword.

"Now let's get out of here."

Aragorn led the way as he and Thengel ran back through the streets of Strathcomb, which by now in no way resembled a town. All the buildings had collapsed and the streets were diverted and forked. It was a maze of flames now, man-high at least, and no conceived map would be of any use to them.

"I think we're in trouble," Thengel appraised as they came upon yet another dead end.

Aragorn grunted and spun around, heading back the way they came. There had been a turnoff on their left…

… That was now blocked.

"If we knew how thick the flames were we could make a run for it," Aragorn informed the King.

"Unfortunately there's only one way to find out," Thengel pointed out, and Aragorn nodded grimly.

"Indeed, sire."

Aragorn steeled himself, preparing for a mad dash through the flames, when Thengel placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Wait, Thorongil. I can ask no man to take suck risks for me."

Aragorn turned towards the King, and for the second time Thengel saw the man with his soul unveiled. Tall and regal, a King of Gondor he could have been, straight from the books he read as a young man.

"I do not recall your asking," this stranger pointed out, and Thengel found himself releasing his restraint. Aragorn nodded at him. "I'll shout to you when I'm through."

"And if I misinterpret cries of pain as you're burned alive?" the King pointed out with false humor.

Aragorn's confidence faltered some and he shrugged slightly. "Let's hope you can tell the difference?" Then he stepped back, taking a few deep breaths to prepare himself. He was just about to take the mad plunge when suddenly—

CRASH!

Two sets of eyes widened in tandem as both Aragorn and the King hit the dirt. A large form sailed out from the flames, parting burning rubble as it went, and leapt over the ducking men. It landed in the center of the street, whinnying.

"Ulmafan!" Aragorn exclaimed as he stood up.

The dappled mare reared and whinnied again. She was completely unsaddled but her bridle remained attached, and her numerous cuts and abrasions all appeared to be shallow.

"Ulmafan le thaurog, late as usual!" Aragorn's words were harsh but he was smiling from ear to ear to see his beloved mare alive and more or less unscathed. The mare quieted down considerably when she caught sight of Aragorn. She trotted over to him and he caressed her brow, murmuring to her in the gray tongue in low tones.

"You know this beast, Thorongil?" Thengel asked incredulously as he approached the pair.

"My mare, sire," Aragorn introduced her. "Ulmafan. I thought she was lost to me."

Ulmafan nuzzled Aragorn's neck affectionately, as if to tell the human that she had been worried for him, too.

King Thengel laughed slightly, shaking his head at their antics, before turning serious again. "If she got in, then certainly we can get out."

Aragorn nodded. "I think she means to show us the way." And he swung himself effortless up onto Ulmafan's back. Once situated he reached a hand down. King Thengel shook his head again in amused disbelief and grabbed the hand that was offered. Aragorn helped the King to mount behind him, but Thengel had to adjust his seat several times before he was comfortable.

"It's been many a year since I've ridden bareback," he lamented.

"Ulmafan views her passengers as her own responsibility," Aragorn informed the King. "She will not suffer you to fall."

"I said that it's been many a year since I've done this," Thengel grumbled, "not that I had forgotten how."

Aragorn stiffened slightly, thoroughly chastised. "Of course, sire," he demurred. Then he bent over and whispered into Ulmafan's ear. The mare nickered and stomped her foot impatiently.

Aragorn hunkered down low along the right side of Ulmafan's neck and felt the King reach around his middle to grab hold of the mare's long mane. He bent down along Aragorn's back and leaned slightly to the opposite side, burying his face below Aragorn's left shoulder.

"Hold on," Aragorn directed, and then Ulmafan took off.

The ten paces to the wall of flame was crossed with blinding speed, and then suddenly they were flying through a world that was hot and red and strangling, but then the ground came up to meet them and the rush of hot air kicked at their hair as it flew out behind them as Ulmafan tore down a flame-lined street until she came to another dead end. The weightless feeling returned but this time Aragorn scrunched his eyes shut and suddenly the entire world flashed white and the roaring in his ears died away to ethereal silence.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel!" he cried out again to Varda, though his voice was lost to his own ears.

_Silivren penna míriel o menel aglar elenath!_ It was the very first hymn he'd learned, one that was still sung nightly in the Hall of Fire.

_Na-chaered palan-díriel o galadhremmin ennorath_. It was hymn he would hear Elrohir sing from the balcony whenever he was pretending to be asleep in Rivendell's healing wing. His brother's voice had always brought him peace.

_Fanuilos le linnathon nef aear_. As he recited the hymn, his voice barely a discernable murmur, little did he know that the great King Thengel of Rohan heard his words, and felt delivered by them.

_Si nef aearon! _

When the words ran dry Aragorn repeated them, over and over again as he lost track of time and space, of whether they were running or falling, of whether it was the heat of the flames that seared his flesh or the cool breezes of the autumn night. When finally his words echoed into stillness Aragorn registered again the fact that he had been speaking. Startled, he opened his eyes and saw the ground moving fast beneath him. The memories rushed up to greet him and suddenly he knew that he was hunkered down atop Ulmafan's back, facilitating a maddening escape from the burnt out remains of the last place in Arda he could call home.

Aragorn shut his eyes again, and waited for Ulmafan to stop.

"Thorongil?"

Aragorn registered the fact that the world was still once again the moment he heard Thengel speak his name.

"Thorongil?"

"Hmm?" Aragorn's eyes opened wide and he sat up again. He felt Thengel's hand resting on his shoulder and heard Ulmafan panting beneath him. He looked around sharply and saw that they were standing in the middle of a field, far enough away from Strathcomb that they couldn't see it from here, though the sky behind them held an unnatural orange glow close to the horizon.

Thengel tapped his shoulder once, getting his attention, and then pointed off to the left.

"We've regrouped," Aragorn observed rather absently as he stared off in detached wonder at the throng of men and horses gathered maybe two hundred paces away.

"So it would seem," Thengel agreed, and Aragorn nudged Ulmafan and she made her way towards them at a slow, steady trot.

"It's the King!" someone shouted as soon as they were close enough for Thengel to be recognized.

"King Thengel!" Another shouted, and the throng moved in a wave to surround the two bedraggled men on the dapple-gray mare. Ulmafan nickered in what could only have been described as amusement.

"Your majesty!" One of the soldiers broke through the throng, and Thengel swiftly dismounted. He crossed the distance between them and unabashedly drew the man into an embrace.

"Léofa! I am much relieved to see you sanding."

"You no more so than I, Thengel Cyning," the man Léofa said as they parted.

"How have we fared—how goes the battle?"

"The battle tonight is won, Thengel Cynning, but we take this victory at great hurt. It's believed that the Dunland forces converged on Strathcomb with numbers nearly doubling our own."

"_Double?_" Thengel balked in disbelief.

Léofa nodded gravely. "We've managed to wipe out the Dunland forces, but I'm afraid the town of Strathcomb is lost."

"Survivors?" Aragorn asked suddenly. Both men were startled to see that he had been standing slightly behind the King for neither of them had seen him dismount. The long shadows had obscured him until he chose to make his presence known.

Recovering, Thengel nodded to Léofa that he should answer the question.

Léofa's answer came on the tails of a sigh. "We found some of the villagers—all men and teenaged boys. They apparently died fighting."

Aragorn hung his head. He already knew that.

"Though whether or not they stayed behind when the town evacuated," Léofa continued, catching Aragorn's attention once more. "Or they hid in their homes… we really don't know."

Thengel sighed deeply. As grieved as he was to learn of the destruction of any town beneath his rule, he knew that Thorongil's specific purpose in this war was to defend Strathcomb, and sadly that was an objective that he never had the chance to make good on.

"What of our own forces?" he asked at length. "Has there been any word?"

Léofa nodded. "Fengel's column faired well, keeping the fleeing Dunlanders ahead of them and killing many with archers. They drove them back to Strathcomb and took their casualties in urban combat when the arrows ran out. Our own column held its own until their reinforcements arrived, but after the retreat was sounded—" here Léofa looked pointedly at Aragorn—"we did will in the city streets alongside Fengel's men. The final count is that we're down anywhere between one half and one third our original total, but survivors are still staggering in, _most_ of them un-mounted."

Thengel managed to laugh at that. "As for that, I owe my good fortune entirely to Thorongil here. He saved my life more times than I dare to count, until his horse showed up and saved us both."

Ulmafan nickered approvingly just as Aragorn said:

"As you have saved mine, sire."

Thengel's laugh deepened and he clasped Aragorn around the shoulder. "You're a good man, Thorongil, but take credit where credit is due—especially if it comes from a king."

Aragorn's cheeks flushed and he cast his eyes downward. "Yes, sire," he demurred weakly.

Léofa smiled and Thengel shook his head, both amused but not unkindly so by Aragorn's demeanor.

"But this is well," Thengel said, bringing them back to their original conversation. "By the look of things from inside the town I feared we had faired much worse. Now, tell me of my second and third marshals? What news from Irengrim and Folca? And where is Fengel, why isn't he here?"

That caught Aragorn's attention again. He was anxious to hear anything of Folca and Arlath and the men of the Third Mark.

"No word yet from Irengrim or Folca. Scouts have already been sent to backtrack our trail to where Irengrim's forces split off from our own and to follow their tracks, but that could take—"

"Days," Thengel supplied, irritation plainly showing in his voice. "And Fengel?"

Léofa looked away. "I'm sorry, my King. Captain Fengel was badly wounded in the village."

Thengel blanched. "What?"

"Dúnhere is with him, but he doesn't think he can do much."

"Dúnhere is not a healer," Thengel protested. Then he turned frantic eyes to Aragorn. "Thorongil, are you as good as they say you are?"

Aragorn was trapped. There was no real way to answer such a pleading question.

"I am a healer, sire. And apparently the only one you have."

Thengel nodded swiftly. "Indeed," he agreed. Then a general order: "Take him to Fengel! See that he gets everything he needs!"

"Follow me, Master Healer." A solder stepped out of the crowd, entreating to be followed.

Aragorn nodded once to Thengel and then complied. He wordlessly followed the random soldier back through the crowd to where a bloodied body lay stretched out on a tattered flag.

"Dúnhere," the soldier snagged the would-be healer's attention. "This is Thorongil. He's a healer."

The man Dúnhere almost seemed to sag in relief. "Praise to Béma! Many wars have taught me how to stitch a gash or set a limb, but this is beyond my skill."

Aragorn noticed that Dúnhere was a man of many winters. His once-blond beard was now completely white, but a few traces of the original color still sparsely peppered the top of his head. Aragorn knelt next to him, hovering over the still form of Captain Fengel.

"What happened?" Aragorn asked, surveying the damage with a critical eye.

"A glaive caught him high in the belly with enough force to rend his armor," Dúnhere explained. "It bled freely but the blood is red. I've gotten the bleeding to slow but I fear he's spilling out inside, and I can't find where. Are you truly a healer, sir Thorongil? Can you help him?"

Aragorn's face was grim. "I'll do my best," he vowed, and he would. "Do you have any supplies?"

"Needles and sinew yes, bandages when we can tear them."

"Any herbs?"

"None."

Aragorn's frown deepened. He turned to the soldier still hovering near. "Do you know where the Rohirrim first engaged the Dunlanders? On the hillside beside the town, by the lone evergreen?"

The soldier took a moment to think about it before nodding.

"Good. Somewhere in that field you'll find a saddle—the strap broke and it fell from my horse, me with it. Attached to that saddle you'll find a pack—bring it to me! And my water skin, I'll need that too. And spread the word: all the water that can be spared, and the cloth."

"Yes, sir!" And the soldier took off to perform his task.

Aragorn then took Fengel's pulse at his neck. "Weak and fast," he announced.

"That hasn't changed much since he was brought here," Dúnhere informed him.

"That is well," Aragorn appraised, nodding. "I don't detect fever yet, but he might have lost too much blood for that to register properly right now. Has he awakened at all?"

Dúnhere shook his head. "Not since I've been tending him."

Aragorn frowned and ran his fingers through Fengel's hair. "I don't feel any head wound."

Dúnhere snorted a laugh. "I can't tell if you think that's good or bad."

"It's good for him," said Aragorn gravely. "Bad for us if he wakes to the pain of our ministrations. I doubt I have the proper herbs to keep him under."

Dúnhere nodded pensively. "Aren't you going to look at the wound?"

Aragorn frowned. "I'm hesitant to undo the dressing without my pack. If he bleeds out again I have something that will ease it. Otherwise we'll only have to do it twice, and he can't stand to lose much more."

"So we wait?"

Aragorn nodded. "Though not idly. Help me roll him onto his side."

"Whatever for?" Dúnhere asked even as he complied.

"I need to check his breathing," Aragorn replied as he used his dagger to slice away the back of Fengel's shirt. Dúnhere bit his lip against further questions and simply waited as Aragorn pressed his ear up against Fengel's back in several places. "His lungs sound clear," Aragorn announced when he sat up again. "With the placement of the wound I couldn't be sure that the glaive hadn't nicked a lung."

"Aye," Dúnhere nodded. "I've seen healers do that, looking for pneumonia."

"Same principle," Aragorn confirmed. "Only we check for blood."

"So he isn't bleeding into his lungs," Dúnhere proclaimed. "Now what?"

"We need to elevate his legs—what can we use?"

"I have his helm and armor?"

"Perfect."

Aragorn held Fengel's legs aloft and waited as Dúnhere gathered the necessary items and made a precarious pile of them, just shy of knee height. When it was ready Aragorn lowered Fengel's legs atop it, and they balanced.

"That should help conserve his blood," Aragorn announced as he wiped his brow with the back of a hand. "Without my supplies I'm afraid there's little else I can do." Then he looked to Dúnhere. "Can you start a fire?"

"If I have something to burn."

"Well find something. Fast."

Dúnhere left swiftly and Aragorn checked Fengle's pulse again. No change. Then he cautiously peeled back one eyelid and saw the pupil constrict some and the eye roll back. Aragorn frowned. As much as he was heartened by these signs it would mean that they would have to hold him down if they were to stitch the wound, and Eru help them if he hemorrhages.

Just then two soldiers came forward carrying bundles.

"We were told you needed bandages, sir," said one of them, and Aragorn saw that they were carrying scraps of cloth.

"Bring them here," he directed, and the soldiers put their bundles down beside him.

"Bits of clothing and saddle blankets," said the other. "Everyone gave what he could spare."

"Thank you," Aragorn managed to say sincerely. The soldiers nodded, cast a forlorn look at their captain, and departed without further word.

From where he sat, Aragorn began to sort through the pile of scraps, trying to group them by length, girth, and cleanliness.

"The horse that fits this saddle has perished," he heard Dúnhere say, and he turned to see the man approaching, indeed carrying a saddle. "It has been gifted for our purposes, along with Fram's personal stash to light it with." When Dúnhere pulled out a flask Aragorn smiled, though the event was far more humorous for Dúnhere, who seemed to be enjoying a private joke as he gleefully splashed some form of moonshine over the saddle.

When Dúnhere took his flint rocks to a scrap of leather it ignited. It burned slowly at first, but Aragorn had hopes that the fire would grow larger.

"You asked for water?" Another soldier appeared, carrying several water skins. Both Aragorn and Dúnhere turned to face him. "This is the last of the water left in camp," the soldier explained. "It's not much."

"It'll have to do," said Aragorn as he surveyed the four skins the soldier set down. He tested them all and none were more than half full at best.

Dúnhere nodded his thanks to the soldier and the man departed. When he looked to Aragorn he saw him unsheathe his boot dagger. It was covered in blood—dry by this point from the constant heat of the flames. Aragorn poured a little water on a scrap of cloth and proceeded to scrub gingerly at the blade, trying to remove the stains.

"You planning on cutting him?" Dúnhere asked skeptically.

"If I have to," Aragorn replied seriously without looking up from his work. "Hopefully I'll just be cauterizing."

Then suddenly the ground shook with hoof beats. Both men looked up in alarm and saw a rider approaching them. He dismounted before his horse had come to a complete stop and when he came running over Aragorn recognized him as the man he'd dispatched to find his pack—which was now clutched firmly in the man's hands.

"I found them!" he shouted as he ran over to them. He dropped to his knees and handed Aragorn his pack. Then he slung the water skin off his shoulder and set it with the rest.

Aragorn inspected the contents of his pack. Miraculously they had survived unscathed; and even the bandages were clean. Aragorn smiled briefly as he tore off a small sprig of athelas.

"Here," he handed it to Dúnhere. "Grind that between your fingers until its very fine, then take some water from a skin and make a paste of it."

Dúnhere was curious but didn't question Aragorn, who was busy assessing just how much athelas he truly had to work with.

"You," he address the nameless soldier who was still hovering nearby.

"Widfara, sir," the soldier introduced himself.

"Well come, Widfara. Hold this dagger above the flames." He demonstrated briefly before handing the dagger over. Fortunately by now the fire had built up enough to be useful. "It won't burn you," he added for reassurance.

Hesitantly Widfara took the dagger and did as he was told.

"I have the paste," Dúnhere announced.

Aragorn's head snapped around. "Good! Now, smear as much of it as you can up against the inside of his cheek."

"You mean inside his mouth?"

"Yes, but try not to go too far down his throat—he wouldn't like to swallow it."

Once again Dúnhere held his questions. Thorongil was a proper healer after all, and now was not the time.

"Finished," he said instead when he was done.

"Good." Then Aragorn handed him a clean bandage from his pack with a sprig of athelas. "Do the same here, only make the paste on the bandage."

"What is this stuff?" Dúnhere finally asked as he crushed the athelas between his fingers.

"Athelas," Aragorn informed him. "The paste in his mouth will be absorbed into his blood and strengthen his heart. What's on the bandage will help slow the bleeding and prevent infection. Now, you said that his blood is only red?"

Dúnhere nodded. "Yes. Bright red."

"Good. Hopefully the glaive didn't penetrate far enough to hit his vital organs. Is that paste ready?"

"Almost."

Aragorn nodded in acceptance. "Now, when I remove the bandage, either the wound will bleed profusely, or it won't. If it does I'll need you to apply the bandage swiftly if we want to stop him from bleeding to death. If not… well, we'll take it from there."

Dúnhere nodded gravely. "Done."

Aragorn inspected the athelas paste and found it satisfactory. "Good," he praised. "Ready?"

Dúnhere shrugged. "As I'll ever be."

* * *

Thengel couldn't bear to watch, not when it was someone he cared about, and Fengel was as close to him as family. He saw Thorongil order water and cloth for bandages, and then Dúnhere had appropriated a saddle for a fire and Fram's personal stash to light it with. When the young Widfara returned carrying Thorongil's own personal cache of healing supplies Thengel rationed that his captain was in good hands. He turned from the sight then, and went looking for Léofa. 

"Will Fengel pull through, my King?" the man asked.

Thengel sighed. "He's in good hands," was all he could say.

Léofa sighed, his face creased with worry for his fellow captain. "Are the rumors really true, sire?"

"Thorongil did cut into Bretta to birth her child," Thengel confirmed. "And he followed Folca into the mountains to act as healer during the Midwinter War."

Léofa's brow furrowed in thought. "You decorated him for bravery then, didn't you sire?"

"That I did," said Thengel. "Folca's official report was that Thorongil wouldn't accept the garrison captain's decision to cut and run, and he went into the mountain pass alone to launch a rescue. He tricked those fell beasts of the Black Land into using their own siege equipment to break open the dam in the ravine, freeing the men trapped inside."

"It's lunacy," Léofa appraised. "If the words hadn't come from Folca himself I would never have believed it."

"Nor I," Thengel agreed. "But I fought with this man in the streets of Strathcomb, and I meant what I said about him having saved my life." Thengel laughed suddenly to himself as his next thought came to him. "At one point he knocked me out of the way of falling debris and covered by body with his—him without helm or shield or armor of any kind."

If possible, Léofa sobered even more. "Then this nation owes him a debt of gratitude."

"Indeed it does," Thengel agreed, "but you miss my point. Thorongil came to the Mark quite by accident from the north. Folca granted him a roof as a show of gratitude, and since then he has employed himself as a healer at need—focusing mainly on the crippled Lindewyn. She was there when I presented him his medal—can you believe that? She actually made the trip to Edoras."

Léofa smiled then. "I did see her. Thorongil's technique has done wonders for her."

Thengel nodded. "And then Folca dragged him off to war," he continued. "Where not only did he earn his stripes as an official healer of the Guild, but he wantonly defied orders for that daring search-and-rescue mission, very nearly getting himself killed in the process!"

"It was truly that bad, sire?"

Thengel sighed. "You saw him at the ceremony didn't you? A crutch and a sling, and I've seen him in Edoras all summer still favoring that left hand."

Léofa laughed then, despite himself. "He was a diplomat's aide for the Amrothian negotiations, yes?"

Thengel joined in the laugh. "He was our ace in the hole, so to speak, Léofa. That man speaks Elvish—now mind you I've stayed quite a while in Gondor so believe me when I tell you that Thorongil speaks it better than Steward Ecthelion himself."

That was a fairly high boast, even outside of Gondor, owing to the tradition that the line of Kings—and ergo the line of stewards, must be fluent in Elven.

"They say that his horse was elf-trained," Léofa pointed out.

"Oh I don't doubt it," Thengel agreed. "He spoke to her in Elvish—too fast for me to hear, but her name is 'Ulmafan,' and my Elvish may be out of practice but I'm fairly certain that means 'raincloud.'" He kept the part of the Elven hymn to himself, as much for Thorongil's sake as for his own.

"'Thorongil' itself is an Elvish name, is it not sire?"

"Léofa you know half the people of Gondor have Elvish names," Thengel dismissed. "Perhaps they keep that tradition in the north as well."

"Sire?"

Thengal sighed tiredly. Now was not the time to go into the history of the fall of Arnor to one who has very little baseline knowledge of the history of Middle-Earth.

And circumstance denied him the chance.

"Thengal Cynning!"

Both Thengal and Léofa turned swiftly and saw a soldier running towards them.

"Aldburn?" Léofa recognized the soldier as one of his contingent.

"Captain Léofa!" The soldier, Aldburn, was startled by his captain, who he hadn't recognized in his haste to get to the King.

"Steady on," Léofa directed.

"My lords, a rider approaches!" Aldburn informed them. "One of Irengrim's scouts!"

This news was enough to set the entire camp in an uproar. The men here had already done their part, but war still raged across the Mark and they were anxious for news. By the time the scout arrived everyone was anxious to hear what he had to say.

"We've found Marshal Folca's army entrenched at Edbaning in the Westemnet," the scout explained. "Marshal Irengrim ordered us to attack, and we drove the Dunlanders back but Folca's scouts report that their reinforcements are marching south and are already past Isengard."

"They'll reach Edbaning within a day!" Léofa exclaimed.

"And if they take it we won't have an easy task reclaiming it," Thengel concluded dourly.

"Sire, should we ride for Gondor?"

"No, no they'd never make it in time. Let's just hope that Folca and Irengrim can hold them off until we get there."

"If we left within the hour we could be there before sunset tomorrow," Léofa informed him.

"Let's push for early afternoon," Thengel directed. "Spread the word, make ready to break camp. We ride as soon as everyone is ready."

Various soldiers scattered to do their King's bidding.

"Sire," Léofa spoke up. "What of the second column?"

Thengel frowned. With Fengel injured and their forces so divided…

"You take it, Léofa. Command of the second column is yours."

Léofa nodded decisively just as Thengel dropped to a knee in the dirt. He traced the outline of a square with an index finger.

"I want you to approach Edbanning from the east. The sun will be in your eyes so the Dunlanders will think they have the advantage—be sure to blacken your faces so you can see straight. I want the Dunlanders focused on you while I lead my column around through the west gate. Hopefully that will be our key in."

"Very good, sire," Léofa affirmed. Then they both stood. "What of your guard? We lost many…"

Thengel shrugged it off. "I'm sure we can find ample men who've just dreamed of riding perimeter around me."

"Sire—"

"Relax, Léofa. Trust for once that I can watch my own backside in a battle without you hovering near."

Léofa frowned but didn't protest. "We no longer have a standard to fly, but Hagar's horn survived."

"I'll take care of it, Léofa," Thengel declared. "Go prepare your men."

"You have a replacement in mind?" Léofa couldn't help but be curious.

"I have a hunch," came Thengel's reply. "Now go. We have work to do."

Léofa nodded once, half-bowing, and swiftly made his exit.

"I have a hunch…" Thengel mused to himself, and went off to see how his second captain was fairing.

* * *

"How many more passes?" Dúnhere asked as he struggled to support Fengel's weight. 

"Until we run out of cloth," Aragorn replied. He had stitched the suitable strips of cloth together into the long, narrow bandage that he was now using to secure the rest of the bandages in place. "Which should be… there." Aragorn tied the end off. "You can put him down now—gently!"

Dúnhere eased Fengel back down with extra care.

"I don't think I'll ever forget that," Widfara exclaimed breathlessly. "Not for as long as I live."

Aragorn sighed in exhaustion. He had been sitting up on his knees and now he reclined back to rest on his heels, arching his back slightly until he heard his vertebrae realign.

"I don't think the Captain will either," he told the young soldier. "You helped save his life."

The tired, lopsided grin that streaked across Widfara's face was well worth it. Mentally Aragorn was merely grateful that Fengel had only squirmed slightly in response to the pain, making small whimpering sounds in the back of his throat. Fortunately he stayed too far under to revive during the procedure. Aragorn still has nightmares of men sitting up screaming on his surgery table, soldiers struggling to hold them down as they tore their stitches and begin bleeding anew.

"How is he?"

All three we startled by the sudden appearance of King Thengel. Dúnhere and Widfara scrambled to their feet so they could properly bow to their King. Aragorn was too busy checking his patient's pulse to care much for Thengel's arrival in that instant.

"Thorongil had to cut him open to stitch him up!" Widfara exclaimed excitedly. "Captain Fengel was bleeding everywhere inside him but Thorongil stitched him up with Dúnhere holding back his skin so he could get at his insides. Then we covered the inside stitches with a paste made from that herb Thorongil carried with him and stitched his outsides back together again. We just finished bandaging him up right before you got here, sire."

"Very good, Widfara," Thengel proclaimed with as much patience as he could muster. Sometimes the exuberance of youth was more grating than it was inspiring. Then, to Aragorn: "Will he live?"

"Too early to tell yet, sire," Aragorn told him truthfully. "But his pulse is strong and none of his major organs were damaged. It'll all depend on how much blood he lost and if his body can recover it—that is, of course, unless infection sets it. But I've done all I can for him out here."

"Good," Thengel breathed in relief, a true smile lighting his face. "Can he be moved?"

Aragorn frowned. "He can't sit a horse, if that's what you're asking sire."

"Then he'll need a litter. Widfara, see if you can devise one."

"Yes, Thengel Cynning!" And the young soldier bowed stiffly and was gone.

Thengel knelt then beside his unconscious captain. He touched Fengel's forehead and found it warm but not alarmingly so. His breath felt strong against Thengel's hand, and no blood could be seen leeching through the bandages.

"You are indeed a man of many talents, Thorongil," the King appraised. Then he sat back in a half-squat and leveled Aragorn with a piercing gaze whose intensity nearly made him look away.

"I only do what I can, sire," Aragorn demurred instead.

"That I believe," Thengel told him truthfully. "Now, can you blow a steady note on a horn?"

Aragorn's soft gaze turned questioning. "Sire?"

Thengel's response was to open the satchel at his side—which in his exhaustion Aragorn previously hadn't noticed—and remove from its depths a polished horn.

"I hope so," he said, tossing the horn to Aragorn. "I've lost many good men today—a field commander among them," he indicated Fengel. The he returned his attention to Aragorn. "You've got an hour to learn to use that, Thorongil Ár, because you've just been promoted."

* * *

**Translations:**

_Mar-nin_: my home

_Adan/edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel! O menel palan-díriel, le nallon sí di'ngruthos! A tíro met!_: (Sindarin) Oh Star-Queen Star-Kindler! From firmament afar-gazing, to thee I cry here beneath death-horror! Watch over us! (Taken from Sam's prayer as he faces Shelob and altered slightly).

_Ulmafan le thaurog_: (Sindarin) Ulmafan you abhorrent demon

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel!_ _Silivren penna míriel o menel aglar elenath!_ _Na-chaered palan-díriel o galadhremmin ennorath_. _Fanuilos le linnathon nef aear_. _Si nef aearon!_: (Sindarin) Oh Star-Queen Star-Kindler! (White) glittering slants down sparkling like jewels from firmament glory (of the) star-host! To remote distance after having gazed from treewoven middle-earth. Snow-white to thee I will chant on this side of the ocean, here on this side of the great ocean! (Taken directly from _Fellowship of the Ring_).

_Arda_: the world

_Thengel Cynning_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)) Thengel King

_Béma_: The name in Rohan for the Vala Oromë

_Eru_: Ilúvatar, aka God

_Ár_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)) herald, so _Thorongil Ár_: Thorongil Herald, a title

* * *

_  
_


	16. Ch 10c: Thorongil's reckoning, part 3

Aragorn watched as Dúnhere double-checked the bindings that secured Fengel's litter to his horse's saddle. Helm's Deep was the closest refuge, and Dúnhere had been assigned to see the captain safely there. Traveling would be difficult given the terrain and Fengel's condition but Dúnhere was confident that he could make it to Helm's Deep before the next sunset.

Anor was already brightening the eastern sky, and dawn would swiftly break across the plain in a matter of moments. Aragorn sincerely hoped that Dúnhere was correct in his estimates because Fengel's chances depended greatly on how soon he received the proper care.

"Well that's it then," Dúnhere declared. He turned from the leather strap he'd been securing and walked the few paces over to where Aragorn stood staring eastward, waiting for the dawn.

"Be mindful," Aragorn warned him. "The ground is rough and litter will not travel smoothly. Check Captain Fengel's condition often; he may tear his inner stitches without tearing the outer ones."

"I rather wish it were you making this journey," Dúnhere lamented. "If he does tear those inner stitches his fate will be sealed for I have not the skills to aid him. You are the true healer here, Thorongil. I am just an old soldier."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Aragorn replied, deflecting the subtle praise. "Simply be mindful of your path and you should not encounter any problems."

"I hope you are right," Dúnhere said truthfully, looking forlornly at the unconscious Fengel. "For his sake." Then he thrust out his arm. "Be safe, young Thorongil."

Aragorn grasped the outstretched arm in a firm warrior's handshake. "And you," he replied.

"Fight well. I will see you in the Deep."

"In the Deep," Aragorn echoed.

The two men then dropped arms and Dúnhere nodded once to Aragorn before turning around and walking back to his horse. Aragorn watched him mount swiftly and ease his horse into a slow walk, remaining carefully mindful of the strapping and the litter as they went. When they turned southwest towards Helm's Deep a brilliant red sun lit their backs, casting long shadows across their path.

"Romen na carnë," Aragorn murmured to himself as he turned his face into the warmth of the dawn. "Anar carnë an serke carnë. An coir edain huinesse vanwa."

In truth Aragorn almost wished he could take Dúnhere's place, for in Helm's Deep he would be acting as a healer and not the kinslayer he'd suddenly become. The men of Dunland weren't fighting for the dominion of Middle Earth; rather they were fighting to reclaim their land which had been stolen out from under them when Steward Cirion of Gondor gifted the province of Calenardhon to the Éothéod of Eorl's people nearly three and a half _yéni_ ago. Suddenly the vast and empty plains were filled with horsemen, and the scattered bands of Dunlandings were forced to flee north and west into the Enedwaith. The men of Dunland continue to fight to reclaim what they feel is rightfully theirs, and to Aragorn that may make them bitter, obsessive, and persistent, but it does not make them evil. That meant the blood staining his dagger and sword (which he doubted he would ever successfully clean) was spilt over little more than a difference of opinion, and that was no reason for the children of Ilúvatar to slaughter each other.

Yet here he was, standing on the brink of yet another battle.

The lives he took last night Aragorn tried to rationalize as being in self defense, yet he had deliberately requested to join this war when otherwise he would have been left behind, and the blood he spilt in the burning streets of Strathcomb felt too much like revenge to be so easily justified. In his eyes that made him no better than the men who torched his village. How can one wage war when there is no right or wrong? How can an honest man be considered evil, if all he does if fight for what is his?

_They burned Strathcomb_ _to the ground_, Aragorn constantly reminded himself. It was the only way he knew to fulfill his duty in the upcoming battle.

With an exhausted sigh Aragorn turned from the glowing red ball that continued to climb higher in the east and tried to put his muddled and depressing thoughts behind him. They would not serve him in the battle to come. Now he must see to Ulmafan, for soon King Thengel would seek him out and tell him to sound the muster.

* * *

King Thengel had lost nearly a third of his entire host in what would go on to be called the Battle of Strathcomb in the Dunland War of 448 of the Mark, and now he had not the time to even summon reinforcements, let alone to call upon the aid of Gondor. The King now had a contingent just shy of four hundred riders to come to the aid of Irengrim and Folca, who had an untold number garrisoned in Edbaning, the largest town in the Westemnet and also the closest to Dunland. 

Situated just east of the Fords of Isen, roughly fifteen leagues northwest of Helm's Deep and twenty-five leagues due west of Strathcomb, the garrison town of Edbaning played host to the Third Marshal's forces. The heavily fortified town boasted reinforced palisade walls and a large contingent of archers. However, the surrounding fields were very fertile and the township of Edbaning sprawled outwards to the north and east with hundreds of acres of family farms that served to feed most of western Rohan (as well as parts of Gondor). Due to its precarious position near the border with Dunland, Edbaning was no stranger to attack. However, this was the first time that the enemy managed to lay siege to the town since the rule of King Folcwine, Thengel's grandfather.

Now the King was leading what was left of his cavalry westward, praying that by the time they arrived there would still be a township of Edbaning left. As tradition dictated, he was surrounded by a new circle of guardsmen. Alas the space on his left stood empty, as the standard-barer had fallen along with his flags. The space to Thengel's right was reserved for his herald, and that was where Aragorn now rode, bareback atop Ulmafan as this was the easier alternative than finding spare strapping to fix his saddle in the sparse time available between his hasty promotion and the call to ride.

Instead he used that time to return to the battle plain outside of Strathcomb and search for his bow and quiver. Miraculously his bow had survived, though not all of his arrows were recoverable. He only had seventeen now, instead of the twenty-five he started out with.

Aragorn now rode with his sword secured tightly to his hip, his dagger to his boot, his quiver slung over one shoulder, and his bow across the other. The horn of Rohan was secured to his belt opposite his sword, but Aragorn now held it in his left hand. It was speckled in a few places with blood, as its two previous owners had met their deaths in Strathcomb, but the horn itself was intact and Aragorn learned quickly how to blow the required notes.

One blow to signal Léofa's column to split off from theirs.

Two long blows to announce their arrival in Edbaning.

One blow to summon the forces forward to attack.

Two blows to signal a retreat.

Three quick blows to get the attention of the King.

Two long blows again, to signal the victorious end of battle.

Aragorn had practiced each unto the satisfaction of King Thengel, who told him that the herald's job was to stay close to the king to receive horn orders during battle. Aragorn knew with certainty that he would again be fighting back to back with Thengel. There was a small measure of comfort in that, seeing how they had survived the burning streets of Strathcomb together and as they rode, Aragorn struggled to keep his focus on that.

It kept him from remembering the faces and the screams of the men he'd slaughtered, and how his sword was still stained with edain blood. It kept him from dwelling on the fact that he was now guilty of kinslaying, and how such an atrocity was rewarded. Aragorn felt the heavy weight of the horn in his left hand and remembered how Elrond had been herald to High King Gil-Galad in two epic wars spanning two ages. As Ulmafan's hooves thundered across the plains beneath him Aragorn felt a pit of shame rise within him the likes of which he'd never experienced. Now in the vast emptiness of Rohan, Aragorn was selfishly glad that his foster family would never know of the sins he committed here.

* * *

The host of Rohirrim rode on through the morning, and when the sun reached its zenith Thengel glanced over at his new herald. Thorongil certainly was an odd sight, riding bareback as he was with no armor of any kind and no shield slung across his back. Thengel's own shield had splintered beneath a glaive outside of Strathcomb, but he'd managed to find another after the battle was won. Yet Thorongil seemed quite content to go without, and he never seemed to even notice that he was slightly underdressed for the party, as the saying went. The man just sat atop his barebacked horse, face grim yet his grey eyes oddly vacant, loosely holding the reins in his right hand while his fingers traced patterns on the horn in his lap with his left. 

Thengel felt a sudden swell of pity for the man, who could have quite possibly lost everything when the village of Strathcomb burned. All he may have left in this world was Folca, and that's only if the Third Marshal still lived. Thengel wondered what it must be like for Thorongil, to have come down from the north with nothing only to have all that he had gained ripped asunder so soon afterwards. What must it be like, to lose everything twice?

That's when King Thengel decided that Thorongil had decidedly _not_ lost everything. Even with Strathcomb burned and (Béma forbid) Folca and his family dead, Thorongil would still have both life and purpose in the Riddermark. With Strathcomb destroyed, if Edbaning no longer stood then the remnant of his éored would station itself in Helm's Deep until the garrison was rebuilt. If Thorongil decided not to join them then Thengel would personally secure him lodging in Edoras. If he returned to the diplomat's role then he could stay where he was, or he could fully enter the healer's guild. The King was even contemplating making the herald's position a permanent one, if Thorongil did well in his new station. If that was the case then Thorongil would make his home in Medusheld itself. Thengel laughed aloud at the thought of his mother having found another lost lamb to dote upon, since Fengel had long since taken a wife.

The King frowned then at the thought of his captain, an orphan of the city that the Queen took pity upon for no other reason than he was named after her husband. With her son living in Gondor she needed someone to care for, and when Thengel at last returned from Lossarnach with Morwen on his arm he discovered that he had a brother. That brother was now on his way to Helm's Deep, his fate uncertain. If he lived, that would be yet another thing Thengel would owe Thorongil.

Indeed, Thorongil of the Third Mark would always be welcomed in Medusheld.

King Thengel roused himself from his distant thoughts and took stock of his surroundings once more. They were making excellent time. Perhaps they could afford a brief rest for the horses? His men had ridden the sun into the ground yesterday, had and fought for most of the evening. If there was to be anything left of them to engage the enemy in Edbaning a short rest would be best, at least long enough to feast on dry rations.

His mind made up, Thengel raised his arm to signal a stop, and began reining in his horse. He glanced aside at Thorongil and noticed that his new herald had not noticed, and so he called out to him.

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn's head snapped around and then over his shoulder to glance behind him. His cheeks reddened slightly at the evidence of his negligence, but he too raised his hand in signal as he eased Ulmafan out of her run.

"We rest here for the horses," Thengel told him as he dismounted.

Aragorn nodded tiredly as he swung himself off of Ulmafan's back. He landed on slightly unsteady legs and his fingers wound themselves into Ulmafan's mane as he used her weight to momentarily support his own. It was then that he realized that he had not slept since the night he and Gandalf spoke, and a profound weariness now settled into his bones. He sighed tiredly, momentarily leaning into Ulmafan for warmth as a chill of exhaustion passed through him. Then he stroked her neck affectionately and sent her off to graze.

Aragorn spun himself in a slow circle, gazing at his fellow Rohirrim as they too dismounted and allowed their horses to wander. They broke into small groups, most likely of their kin and longtime friends, and Aragorn allowed their conversations to wash over his ears. They spoke of trivial things, such as the weather or of the sights they passed along the ride. Their voices were weary yet upbeat, and none spoke of the previous battle or of the one to come. Aragorn found himself envying them their resiliency.

He walked slowly towards the edge of their congregation, allowing their words to fall out of earshot. He sat with his back to them atop a small rise, his gaze drifting off to the northwest. He wondered what his brothers were doing that instant, and if the leaves had started to change yet in Imladris. These thoughts brought with them a dull ache, which was a welcomed change from the sharp stabbing pains that lanced through his heart at every previous thought or reminder of the life he left behind, and he remembered Gandalf's words. He had hurt them, yes, but their pain did not outmatch their love. To them he was still Elrondion, and Rivendell was still his home.

And the dull ache throbbed in his heart as he pondered their reaction to how far the Hope of Men and Elves had fallen.

"Thorongil?"

Aragorn's musings were interrupted by Thengel's approach from behind. He pivoted where he sat and then hastily rose to greet the King.

"Sire?"

"At ease, Thorongil," Thengel dismissed with a wave of his hand as he climbed the small hill to where Aragorn now stood.

"I apologize for wandering off—do you need me to sound the horn?" Aragorn stammered.

Thengel shook his head. "Nay, Thorongil. We can spare a few more moments yet."

"Then, what do you need, sire?"

Thorongil's hesitancy was strange to the King, even if it was slightly expected. It was as though his new herald was completely baffled that a King would seek his company for something other than military or courtly business. He idly wondered if men of authority in Thorongil's past held themselves so aloof that the notion of friendship with them was entirely foreign.

Thengel brushed aside his musings and answered Thorongil's inquiry by tossing an apple to him. The startled herald deftly snatched it out of the air, shock and utter confusion showing plainly on his face.

"I noticed that none of your packs have made the journey from Strathcomb," the King explained. "You must eat if you expect to have the energy to fight by the time we reach Edbaning."

Aragorn's stomach growled audibly in response and he was startled to realize that he didn't even remember the last time he ate.

"Thank you, Thengel King," he said, his voice slightly awed at this simple gesture of friendship.

"When you've finished breakfast come and find me," the King directed. "So we can summon the men to their horses."

"Yes, sire," Aragorn bowed slightly at the waist as he acknowledge the order.

Thengel chuckled slightly to himself, shaking his head, as he turned and walked from the mound back down to where his men were gathered.

The host was underway again shortly thereafter.

* * *

They had been riding for barely an hour when Thengel called out to his herald again. Aragorn glanced over without slowing his gallop. He saw the King's eyes rest on him expectantly though he could discern no direction in the King's gaze. Aragorn's brow furrowed in question and Thengel laughed then. He brought up his free hand to pantomime blowing a horn and Aragorn's eyes widened in surprise even as his cheeks flushed from embarrassment. He nodded sheepishly and took the horn in his left hand. He raised it to his lips and, just as practiced, sounded the call for the forces to divide. The note tickled his lips, just as before, and Aragorn couldn't help the swell of pride that rose in him when Thengel nodded approvingly and returned his gaze to the west. 

Behind them, the host of Rohirrim divided into two columns once more, as Captain Léofa took command of his contingent. Soon Thengel was bending his course to the north, and his column followed. Léofa's men would continue their approach from the southeast, as per the King's plan, and act as a diversion.

* * *

Shadows lengthened into afternoon as Thengel's host continued its march on Edbaning. Aragorn allowed his mind to fall in synch with the rhythms of his mare as her hooves thundered beneath him. He needed to recoup some of his strength during this ride if he hoped to be able to stand when they reached the township, let alone swing his sword. 

Finally Aragorn felt a subtle shift in Ulmafan's gate. He dragged his eyes from the horizon and noticed that Thengel had slowed his horse to a slow canter, one hand lofted to signal the column to stop. Aragorn gave the King a searching look, but Thengel shook his head as if to say that he didn't need his herald's services right now, and well he didn't. The host trickled to a stop and then, as if on some unseen cue, two men came forward, not mounted, and stopped just outside the formal circle. Scouts, Aragorn surmised.

"Scale the rise," he heard Thengel dictate. "Report what you see."

The two men nodded and began swiftly yet stealthily scaling the embankment. It was rather low yet held a fairly steep pitch. Not much an obstacle for a well-trained horse, but Aragorn concluded that the angle was such that their numbers would be hidden from unfriendly eyes. Also, the top of the incline should provide a great vantage point to survey the battle that was surely taking place. Aragorn stilled a moment and cupped a hand to his ear, but try as he might, he couldn't discern any sounds of battle. Either Edbaning was out of earshot, or the clanking of armor and the stomping of hooves severely limited his range.

There was of course another possibility, but Aragorn refused to give any further consideration to that thought. Instead he returned his attention to the scouts.

One scout was perched atop the embankment, the other a third of the way up, leaving roughly forty paces between them. The one at the top crouched low so that he was nearly lying prone and Aragorn noticed that he had stripped out of his armor so that the sun wouldn't have anything to glint upon and reveal their position. A few moments of stillness and then the scout turned around and began a series of elaborate hand gestures. While Aragorn couldn't read the signs, he recognized the tactic. Both elves and rangers had similar practices.

"The township is surrounded," the scout near the bottom translated for his counterpart. "Our men are garrisoned inside, but the Dunlanders have broken through the south wall. There's a bottleneck at the breach where our men defend the town… but Dunlanders are scaling the north wall with ropes and grapnels. Sire," the scout fully turned to face the King. "He says they'll soon be overwhelmed."

"Then we have no time," Thengel declared. "I want everyone who still has an arrow left to their name to take up positions to the north and shoot down the enemy as they scale the walls. When your arrows are spent, use your swords to deal with the stragglers. The rest of you, charge the breach in the south wall, allow Folca's men some reprieve to fight the enemy already within. Now, where is my herald?"

"Here, sire," Aragorn called out. He nudged Ulmafan a few steps closer to the King.

"Your position is as close to mine as can be arranged, understood?"

Aragorn nodded. "Yes, sire."

"Have you any arrows?"

"Seventeen survived with me from Strathcomb."

Thengel nodded once in acceptance. "Then I shall lead the assault from the north. Now, who did Léofa leave in his stead?" Thengel's piercing gaze swept across his men while Aragorn quietly absorbed the fact that his majesty seemed to be tailoring his battle plan around Thorongil's arrows. He would have expected to be ordered to donate his bow and quiver to another rider so that he could accompany Thengel on the attack on the south wall.

"Here, sire!" A soldier of Rohan came forth.

Thengel's eyes alit with recognition. "Haleth? Good! The charge against the south wall is yours."

"What of Léofa?" the man Haleth asked.

"The situation here is worse than I feared. We cannot afford to wait for him," the King replied.

Haleth nodded. "Riders, to me!"

"Archers!" Thengel immediately followed with, and the contingent began to divide. "Scouts!" he called to his two men. "Where is the best place to shoot from?"

The scout signaled his counterpart, who nodded.

"There's another outcropping three hundred paces that way," the translator reported, pointing towards the northwest.

Thengel nodded. "Good. Get back in your armor and find your stations."

The scouts began their descent while Thengel mustered the fifty or so men who still had arrows. Aragorn thought this number to be a tad small, but then he saw how some of the men were trading bows between them and he realized that the arrows were being divided between the best archers. Thengel did not order his men to do this, and Aragorn wondered if perhaps that was because he knew he did not have to. It made the most sense, giving the arrows over to the best shots of their contingent. Aragorn found himself wondering how his own skills would measure up.

"Come, men!" Thengel called out as he dismounted. "We leave the horses here. The more Dunlanders we can shoot down unchallenged the better and the concussion of hoof-beats would give us away."

The men complied and soon Aragorn was biding farewell to Ulmafan. The mare seemed in the mood to protest, but soft words in the gray tongue placated her and she seemed to accept this decision, though reluctantly if the snorting and foot-stamping were any indication.

"Your mare certainly has a mind of her own," Thengel observed with a knowing smile.

"That she does, sire," Aragorn agreed, sharing the smile for a moment before both men turned their attentions to the march.

The scout's words were true, and Thengel ordered his men to ascend the meager outcropping and to take positions, hidden behind whatever rocks they could find lest the Dunlanders have strong spear arms. They were perhaps a three hundred paces from the north wall.

Aragorn found a spot, halfway up on the far left side that would allow the King decent cover. He placed his quiver by his feet and began methodically checking his bowstring, ensuring that he could compensate for any changes in tensile strength that resulted during the ride.

Now Aragorn could hear the sounds of the battle raging ahead of him. It only helped to steel his resolve, as he reminded himself that Folca, Arlath, and the men of the Third Mark were in there, fighting for their lives, waiting for help to arrive.

He would not fail them.

"Fire at will," he heard Thengel order from a good four paces back and to his left—out of snap range should his bow break. Then he noticed that the rest of the archers were ready. "Just make your arrows count."

Aragorn nodded and reached into his quiver. He notched his first arrow, raised his bow, and took aim at the back of an unsuspecting Dunlander who had made it halfway up the wall and was climbing fast. He focused on the wind speed and direction a moment, sucked in a breath, and then let the arrow fly. It struck true, right between his target's shoulder blades. The Dunlander released the rope and fell back to the ground, where he lay unmoving.

Aragorn ignored him though, just as he ignored the fact that the unfortunate climber was the first adan to ever fall to one of his arrows. He was too busy taking aim for the next shot, at a Dunlander who had nearly reached the top of the wall. The twang of a released bowstring and his tally grew to two. As it became five, then ten, and then fifteen, Aragorn couldn't quite shut out the heavy weight that crept into his gut that whispered of how only cowards shot unsuspecting men in the back.

Funny how he'd never thought that true of shooting orcs.

By now the Dunlanders attempting to scale the wall were well aware that they were being fired upon, and most had broken off in favor of charging the archers. Aragorn's last two arrows cut down men who rushed the Rohirrim head on, but the fact that the dead had seen it coming did little to ease the weight in the pit of his stomach. He shoved it out of his mind though, when he heard Thengel yell for swords.

Aragorn dropped his bow and quiver with only a passing thought as to whether or not he'd see them again—the Rohirrim seemed to place little sentiment on such items, most likely from grim experience. Then he unsheathed his sword and glanced aside to see that he now stood level with King Thengel.

"Do you remember the call for a charge?"

Aragorn nodded.

"Well, don't you think that now would be a good time?"

Aragorn felt his face flush, as he had missed his cue again. Thengel didn't seem overly concerned by it though, seeing that he was only field-promoted several hours ago. Aragorn was grateful for that even as he vowed not to miss the next one. He raised the horn to his lips and blew the one low note that ordered the men to charge. Before the note had ended, the fifty Rohirrim were already rushing forth, swords ready. Aragorn allowed the horn to rest down by his hip, across from his sword, where the strap secured it. He noticed that Thengel had waited for him, and with a nod shared between them, they charged together into the coming battle.

The charging Dunlanders held spears, and as soon as the Rohirrim left their cover those spears started to fly. All around him Aragorn saw the men of Rohan sling their shields around to rest in their off hands. As the spears came in, most missed entirely, but those that stayed on target were blocked. More often than not, the stray spears were scooped up by the Rohirrim as they passed, and hurled back at the oncoming Dunlanders with marginal success. The Rohirrim weren't used to throwing javelins; they only used spears in mounted combat, with the force of their momentum adding to their throws.

Of course, each spear the Rohirrim threw back at the Dunlanders was then used again, and a macabre game of catch played out between the opposing forces as they closed the gap between them.

A loud THUNK off to his left told Aragorn that his majesty had just blocked a spear. He looked over to ensure that Thengel was indeed unharmed. He was met with a headshake and a wry grin.

"If you survive this, Thorongil, you'll go down in song as that strange warrior from the north who insisted on charging naked into battle."

"My people tend to favor agility over armor," Aragorn replied as he raised his sword. They had just reached the approaching line of Dunlanders.

"Rogue," he heard Thengel's amused dismissal, just before the clash of swords.

The Dunlanders were swinging spears like quarterstaffs. One swung down at Aragorn, intending the blow to fall on his left shoulder. Aragorn blocked that swing up high, knowing that the taller Dunlander would use his height as leverage. The spear continued to press down against Aragorn's sword, the Dunlander gaining precious inches despite Aragorn's best efforts—which required significant thrust from his left shoulder, where weakness lingered still. Aragorn knew he could not hold out for long.

Running out of time and options, Aragorn grit his teeth and hastily shoved his sword upwards and farther to the left, causing the spear to scrape along the side of the blade. This allowed a shift in Aragorn's center of balance and enabled him to find stronger footing. With his shoulders now more squared, Aragorn was able to support his sword with more of his right arm, relieving the pressure in his left shoulder. Regaining important equilibrium in his limbs, Aragorn was finally able to counter the attack.

Suddenly Aragorn dropped his sword and the spear sliced downwards. Aragorn was already too far to the right for it to hit him, but the Dunlander had been too preoccupied with maintaining the strength of his position to notice until it was too late. His spear streaked towards the ground, causing his reach to extend beyond his center of gravity. The man stumbled, eyes widening, as Aragorn easily pivoted around and brought his sword home. The Dunlander's headless body collapsed upon all fours before sprawling at the ranger's feet.

Aragorn rotated his left shoulder once for good measure while cursing his weakness, but he wasn't given much of a respite before the next Dunlander was upon him.

A spear tried to jab at his left side and Aragorn sidestepped right while swatting the weapon away with his sword. He transferred his sword into his left hand as he did so without thinking, and he the sudden heaviness of the blade surprised him. Suddenly fearful of the strength in his arm, Aragorn quickly spun on his left foot and sent his right shoulder crashing back into the Dunlander's left side, gripping the extended spear in his right hand as he did so. The concussion of his impact jarred the man's grip enough for the projectile weapon to be ripped from his grasp.

The enraged Dunlander attempted to crush Aragorn in a bear hung from behind, but the ranger shoved back with spear, sending the butt of it into his enemy's stomach. The man grunted and his grip slackened some, but he didn't release Aragorn, who then repeated the gesture along with a simultaneous stomp on his enemy's foot for good measure. This time his efforts paid off and the Dunlander stumbled backwards. Aragorn wasted no time then in spinning around and impaling the man on his own spear. The Dunlander stumbled forward, crying out in his death throes, but Aragorn ignored him. He had already transferred his sword back into his right hand and was looking towards his next opponent.

Another Dunlander was advancing, twirling his spear. Aragorn stood ready and studied his opponent's rhythm, watching as the Dunlander leered at him, almost daring him to stage an attack through his flashy display of spearmanship. After a few moments though Aragorn nodded to the man—which threw the Dunlander off his guard—and charged head on. He closed the gap between them before his opponent realized what happened, and suddenly the Dunlander saw Aragorn's sword swinging perilously close to his head. The attack came so quickly that the man barely had time to awkwardly bring his spear around to block the swing.

Wooden spear locked with steel blade, and Aragorn used the moment's grinding pause to land a well-placed kick to his opponent's groin. The Dunlander's knees gave way and the man dropped. Aragorn swiftly stabbed his sword down through the back of his enemy's neck, the blade severing the man's spine as it traveled through his chest to protrude through the lower ribcage. Aragorn braced a leg on the dying man's shoulder and ripped his sword free with a sickening SPLORCH.

Aragorn spun away from the gore with the follow through from his sword's release. Even as he regained his footing, his eyes were searching again for the next opponent. That's when he noticed that his fellow Rohirrim had dispatched most of the Dunlanders in their midst; however, now there were several battles taking place atop the wall. Apparently only some of the enemy had broken off their attack to charge the archers. Once it became clear that the arrows had run out, most of the Dunlanders went back to scaling the wall, leaving the enemy occupied with their comrades below.

Now it appeared as though there were no more Dunlanders to face on the ground here. His band of Rohirrim had dispatched the last of them, and was now regrouping. A quick head count revealed that they had lost twelve men in this attack, but the number of Dunlanders they engaged had been nearly equal to their own, and their tale of dead was at least double. This small battle had been won, at the very least, but the victory was hardly celebrated. Right now, the most important thing for Aragorn was finding the King.

"Thengal Cynning!" he called out, his eyes frantically sweeping the area. "Ai, Thengal Cynning!" The soldiers nearest him began craning their necks as worry for their King began to spread. Then, just as Aragorn had raised the horn to his lips to blow the notes designed to catch Thengel's attention—

"I'm here!"

All heads turned sharply at the sound of the King's voice. Thengel was jogging from father back towards the rocks, his armor bloody enough to worry Aragorn's healer's eye.

"Sire, are you well?"

King Thengel nodded dismissively, exhausted. "Aye. None of this is mine. Well, not much of it anyway."

Aragorn gave the King a scrutinizing gaze, but he saw no lie in Thengel's eyes. After a moment he nodded.

"Those we did not kill have scaled the wall," he informed the King, loud enough for all to hear for by now the rest of their band had gathered around them. "Should we follow them?"

The King turned his attention to the north wall, which stood ten times man-height at least. No less than fourteen lines hung down from grapnels secured over the palisade ledge. Thengel's eyes narrowed momentarily in thought.

"If we can help relieve Folca's rearguard they can better repel the enemy at the bottleneck," the King apprised. Then he nodded decisively. "Men, sheathe your swords and grab a rope—carefully though, I want no more than two men on a line at a time. Those devices are Dunland craft and we can only guess as to their quality."

The men nodded and fanned out, dividing themselves between the fourteen lines. Aragorn and Thengel made their way to a rope that hung towards the center of the collection.

"Perhaps it would be best if you waited until the second wave, milord," Aragorn suggested to Thengel with as much humility as he could muster. "Allow your men to secure the rampart first."

Thengel gave Aragorn a scrutinizing gaze that bordered on an intimidating stare. "You would coddle your King—your elder, through a battle against his ancestral foe?"

Aragorn dropped his gaze, chastised, yet his conviction did not wane. When at last he answered, raised his head and openly met Thengel's eyes.

"I would safeguard your life, sire, as is the charge of every soldier of Rohan in a battle against _any_ foe."

In those mercurial depths Thengel saw nothing but the truth behind Aragorn's words. He nodded gruffly in acknowledgement of such honesty, and then spared a glance to the rest of his men.

"Well Thorongil, it seems that in the time it took for us to have this conversation, the first wave has already reached the top. Seeing as you have your way anyway, you can be the one to follow _me_ up." And the King turned towards the rope without a second glance. Within moments, he was slowly yet steadily climbing.

Aragorn didn't exactly feel comfortable with this arrangement, but it was the best that he could hope for. He kept one eye trained on the King while surveying the scene at rampart. It seemed that the men didn't meet with much resistance, which was blessing enough. By the time Thengel reached the top, the second wave would have already climbed over.

Once Thengel had crossed the halfway point Aragorn began his ascent. In the beginning he moved swiftly, gaining much ground on the slower-moving King. Yet somewhere between half and three quarters of the way up the grip of his left hand began to falter, so Aragorn grit his teeth and twisted the rope around his left wrist. Climbing hand over hand had become dangerous, and now whenever his right hand released the rope to seek higher purchase, the line would pull taught around his left forearm, ensuring that he did not slip. This tired his right arm considerably more than normal climbing would have, but the muscle fatigue was nothing compared to the strain in his left shoulder every time his right hand moved. Fortunately the long sleeves of his tunic prevented any rope burn, but his left wrist was throbbing by the end, keeping time with the dull ache in that shoulder.

When at last Aragorn reached the top of the palisade and started to swing his legs around, he felt a strong hand grab him by the belt and hoist him the rest of the way over. He dropped into a low squat atop the rampart to catch his breath a moment, and when he looked up he found the concerned eyes of the King trained upon him.

"Your left arm?" Thengel inquired knowingly.

Aragorn nodded as he straightened. "My grip has never truly returned. When overworked… it wants to fail me."

"You should not have ridden to war with such a handicap." Thengel's chastisement fell in words only. No censure appeared on his face or in his tone.

"I swing my sword right-handed," Aragorn informed him. "Believe me when I say that I did not think it would be an issue."

"Famous last words," the King apprised. "Let us hope that fate does not hold you to them."

Aragorn's answering smile was without humor. "There are worse fates than death in battle," he reasoned.

Thengel nodded gravely. "An evening of Gondorian opera comes to mind," he offered quite seriously, and Aragorn's eyes widened in surprise. "But come, this battle will not wait for us."

Aragorn chuckled despite himself and shook his head. Thengel's honest words had revived his spirits some, even as he prepared himself for the next phase of this battle. In short order his sword was drawn and ready, and the smile that had graced his lips so briefly had waned into a line of grim determination. Once again he and a battle-ready Thengel nodded to each other, and together they sought entry into the fray.

The town of Edbaning proper sprawled below them, a roughly square-shaped settlement entirely surrounded by a palisade wall, complete with an inner rampart wide enough for men to patrol without fear of a misplaced step. The town itself was laid out in a grid pattern comprised of wide rows of streets slashed through by narrow, darting columns of alleyways. Careful planning enabled Edbaning to stand at over twice the size of Strathcomb while taking up roughly the same amount of land. The wooden buildings were densely packed with the thatching of their roofs sometimes touching in places. Aragorn counted it a blessing that an errant (or deliberate) torch hadn't already set the place ablaze.

Thengel led their way to the nearest staircase and then down to the streets below. The bodies of deceased Dunlanders lay sprawled about, intermixed with those of the Rohirrim, most wearing the colors of Folca's éored upon their armor. The sound of clashing blades could be heard nearby, and Aragorn dutifully followed the King as Thengel ran down the wide perimeter street and then darted down a narrow alleyway. Sure enough, skirmishes were being fought the next street over.

The Dunlanders here had scaled the north wall, for they were too far back to have come through the breach to the south. Aragorn noticed that they were each wielding a sword that had obviously belonged to a soldier of Rohan and he wondered at how unarmed men—for none of those who scaled the wall had carried weapons—could have defeated skilled swordsmen, yet apparently they had. After taking grim stock of the situation, the King and his Herald charged as one, and the clashing of two more mighty swords was added to the cacophony.

Aragorn's wonder was chased from his mind the moment he locked swords with one of these invaders. However, the men of Dunland were not skilled swordsmen; the problem was that they compensated for this by double- and triple-teaming their opponents. Aragorn cleanly slipped his sword in to block a blow aimed to sever the unguarded head of a soldier of Rohan who was currently deflecting a shot to his knees delivered by another Dunland foe.

The attacker that Aragorn interrupted growled in frustration and pivoted to face his new opponent, but even as he did so Aragorn pinwheeled his blade in a fast, tight circle. The Dunlander's sword arm was knocked away and the man had neither the skill nor the speed to bring his blade around again. When Aragorn's blade slashed through the man's heart, all he could do was blink in surprise, gurgle once on his own blood, and then collapse dead at where his killer's feet should have been.

Even as he ripped his sword free of a dying man's chest, Aragorn was already turning to face his next opponent. He parried an awkward strike and stepped aside, attempting to catch his enemy off balance, but before he had the chance to make his next move his foe was felled from behind. The soldier of Rohan that Aragorn had aided just moments ago had landed a clean slash across the man's back that nearly cleaved his torso in two. He fell dead without having seen the face of his killer.

Across the body, the soldier of Rohan nodded to Aragorn, who nodded back in acceptance of a debt repaid. Aragorn would have liked to ask if the man had seen or knew anything of the fate of the Third Marshall or his lieutenant, but the battle closed in around him before he was given the chance.

The skirmishes in the township streets were scattered and mismatched, the fighting taking place in isolated pockets of violence. Aragorn momentarily found himself a new fighting partner, but then so had Thengel, as they both had intruded into separate battles for the soul purpose of evening the odds. Now four men stood alone in the center of a deserted street, the dead the only audience to their impromptu conference.

"Stick together," Thengel commanded. "We'll spread through this town like locusts, collecting more of our forces as we go and leaving nothing but Dunland bodies in our wake."

The two soldiers of Rohan cheered, but Aragorn's face was grim as he nodded. Any delight he might have taken in the thought of avenging the loss of Strathcomb in the streets of Edbaning was chased from his mind by the King's colorful simile. To think of himself and his newfound kin as a great plague of Middle Earth…

There was something undefined and yet unsettling in that analogy.

The thought was chased from Aragorn's mind swiftly however, when the small huddle broke and his three compatriots looked towards the next battle. King Thengel led the small charge, and two blocks down they entered another uneven match. A quick flurry of swords and three more Dunlanders lie dead, with two more soldiers of Rohan now joining their ranks.

The band of six moved on, drawn towards the sound of clashing swords. Another block over a larger skirmish was being fought—ten Dunlanders against seven of the Rohirrim. King Thengel called out a Rohirric war cry as he leapt into the thick of battle, with his dutiful herald right at his heels. Again these Dunlanders were swinging pilfered Rohan swords, and Argorn's blood boiled as he counted each to mean a fallen comrade somewhere in this city. One of those blades could have been Folca's, or Arlath's.

Yet the sword that swung up to meet him as he charged wasn't a familiar one, Aragorn noted, as he ducked low to avoid decapitation. He dropped to one knee and slashed out with his sword, taking his opponent's feet painfully out from under him. The Dunlander toppled over Aragorn, one mostly hewn leg snapping off in a trail of gore as his awkward momentum severed the last threads that held it together. Aragorn stood swiftly, catching the spray across the front of his tunic, but he barely broke stride as he thrust his sword down into the dying man's chest to put him out of his misery. When he stood at last, ten Dunlanders and one unfortunate soldier of Rohan lay at the feet of twelve victorious Rohirrim.

Aragorn's eyes frantically scanned this small crowd, trying to gauge the masters of these six new faces from the color of their armor. Alas, they were all part of his original band of archers who had scaled the walls ahead of him and the King. The chance for word of Folca would have to wait. However, before the disappointment had a chance to register with his brain Thengel was shouting orders and Aragorn's party was moving again, now a dozen strong.

The King seemed to be leading them into the heart of the city as they zigzagged through the streets. Always Aragorn kept Thengel within his sights, but the soldiers that had merged with their small band seemed just as keen on his majesty's safety—or at the very least, more thirsty for the spilling of Dunland blood. At every skirmish they encountered, the men would charge ahead, and their foes would be dead ere Thengel—and therefore Aragorn—had the chance to even swing their blades. Just as the King directed, his band swept through the city, rounding up more of their kin and leaving only bodies in their wake. By the time they reached what Aragorn thought to be the central square, their numbers had reached thirty.

"Look!" one soldier cried. "The sundial still stands! Dunland has not taken the city yet!"

In a small, fenced in square, a massive sundial stood, with gyroscopes for time of day and time of year situated above a stone dais. Aragorn heard his companions cheer for the news that it was unharmed.

"No they haven't," King Thengel agreed sternly. "And they will not. Come, we push to the south!"

From this midpoint of the city, the band of thirty marched on. Aragorn dutifully raised the horn to his lips and blew the signal for the men to divide. Thengel turned sharp eyes on him but then he swiftly nodded, smiling thinly as he saw the confusion in his men's eyes turn to realization. They began to fan out, darting down alleyways to come to stand five abreast at the mouths of the six major south-facing streets. Now their push would be a sweep.

"You have good instincts, Thorongil," the King told Aragorn. "Though, it is generally prudent to wait until you are asked to use them."

Aragorn simpered slightly but then hesitantly met the King's gaze. "Was this not what you had intended, sire?"

Thengel grimaced slightly as he realized that Thorongil had trapped him. Admitting that he had not thought of it would make him seem the lesser man in his men's eyes, but saying that he had would have made them question his reprimand. The fact that Thorongil had asked the question so innocently only served to make it worse.

"I had intended for my men to seek their own paths," the King hedged, his voice gruff though hinting at amusement. "Though this works just as well. Now let's be off; it's another ten blocks to the south wall, and the road ahead is blocked."

Aragorn looked up at that, and scanned the road ahead. Sure enough, eight blocks away a blockade had been built out of debris. A wall made apparently of splintered wood stood over man-high and blocked the road. Hastily constructed no doubt by Folca's men while Irengrim's forces fought outside the city to break the lines of Dunland, this wall's only purpose was to provide a last line of defense for the rest of the city in the event that the south wall was breached.

Aragorn realized that the Dunlanders who scaled the north wall had only one purpose, and that was to march on this blockade from the other side and tear it down, thus opening up the city for their taking. The bodies that littered the ground eight blocks ahead attested to the fact that they had tried and failed to attack Folca's men from behind, at least along this road, but Edbaning was ten blocks wide. Who knew what their comrades would find at the end of their chosen streets?

"Folca's men must have the enemy contained between the blockade and the south wall," Aragorn concluded.

Thengel nodded. "That is where the fighting will be heaviest. The Dunlanders will have laid siege to the town from the breach in the south wall. Folca's men will be entrenched between the blockade and the palisade while Irengrim's men try to fight through the bottleneck."

"But the Dunlanders were reinforced," Aragorn exclaimed in a gasp. "Irengrim's men are pinned between the wall and the incoming host!"

"That is why the bulk of my éored was sent to charge the south wall," Thengel explained. "Hopefully Haleth and Irengrim will be able to pinch the Dunlanders between them."

"What of Léofa's column?"

Here Thengel frowned. "There were to have come from the east across the open plains. By rights they should be here by now."

"Perhaps they ran into resistance along the way," Aragorn surmised grimly.

Thengel shook his head. "The Dunlanders know they are no match for a host of mounted Rohirrim. They would not have engaged them."

Aragorn's pensive frown was interrupted by the intruding trumpet of a horn and suddenly their conversation was over. Aragorn could not help the relieved smile that lit his face, and the King donned one to match him. He was a bit late, but Léofa had arrived with the rest of Thengel's men.

"Léofa's column is charging," Thengel shouted. "Our enemies will be overrun."

A chorus of cheers rose up from the Rohirrim who heard their King's exclamation. Paces quickened and Rohirric war cries rang out all around them.

"Let us rush forth to greet them," Thengel directed, a confident determination resonating in his voice that had previously been lacking. It served to remind those who heard it that they were standing in mighty company.

"I am with you, Thengel Cynning," Aragorn vowed, and received a royal nod of affirmation in return before the rush began.

Once again Thengel led the charge, and Aragorn fell into place at the King's side. Behind them, three soldiers of Rohan followed as they raced through the streets, intending to cut down any enemies found loitering in their path before they reached the blockade, the other side of which being where the heaviest fighting was taking place. Off to the left and right they heard the clashing of metal against metal, as their comrades in parallel streets were the first to meet Dunland resistance on this march, yet they themselves faced no enemies. It was as though the Dunland warriors were aware that the King of Rohan was among them and would suffer no opposition.

As his party drew closer to the blockade Aragorn gained a new appreciation for its construction. Buildings had been ripped apart in the frantic search for materials, Folca's men sundering their own homes to protect what lay behind them. To Aragorn it looked as though a narrow tornado had streaked across the town, rending buildings and scattering their bones into the streets to create the blockade. The construct of lumber that blocked off every street included furniture such as chairs, tables, and bed frames sometimes still with mattresses stacked over man-high, and these impromptu walls butted right against the sides of gutted houses, forming a desperate blockade across the entire town.

The most striking sight however wasn't the blockade. It was the bodies that littered the ground in front of it.

Apparently many Dunlanders had scaled the north wall, because there were thirteen bodies littering this red-stained dirt-paved street alone. Glancing down the alleyways revealed similar tales in the neighboring streets. Folca's men had made a mighty stand to protect their flanks, as all the dead Rohirrim wore the colors of the Third Mark upon their armor.

Yet there were no swords among the dead. At last, Aragorn had his answer.

The battle raged on the other side of the blockade, and its noise was deafening. The shouts and screams of men were heard above the dull roar that was the constant and overlapping crash of sword and spear and glaive and every few moments the blockade shook with the force of some unseen impact.

"Sire?" one of the soldiers in their party hesitantly spoke up.

Thengel's eyes were narrowed as he studied the wall in front of him, though there was a distance to his gaze that betrayed the fact that he was thinking beyond what was immediately before his eyes.

"Scale the wall," he directed at length. "Folca's men need all the help they can get."

Aragorn nodded absently and turned his attention to the construct. He knew now that suggesting to Thengel that his majesty wait until at least his herald had ascended first would have been unwelcome, so instead of offering Aragorn decided to merely trust to his previously lauded agility and succeed in scaling the blockade ahead of the King. His well (elf)-trained eye easily spotted the quickest, surest route and moments later he was leaping at the blockade.

Thengel watched in veiled amusement as his herald jumped at the blockade. He had just found his first foothold above the ground—atop a chair no less, and had grabbed at a piece of timber in preparation for that first step, but Thorongil had aimed for a ledge that might have been the edge of a table a good knee-length above that. The youth had jumped and landed squarely and now clung to the wall like a burr. Thengel merely shook his head when Thorongil began to climb only moments after securing his landing.

Aragorn swiftly scaled the blockade, never pausing to search for the next handhold and never stopping to test the strength of the ledge or abutment that supported his feet. The blockade was half a length above man high, but Aragorn's left shoulder found no trouble in supporting him through the climb. That he was able to support most of his weight at all times with his feet had undoubtedly saved him.

When Aragorn reached the top he felt the piles beneath his feet shift slightly. Between his weight and the concussion of impact from the battle below, the blockade was not as stable as he would have liked, but he shoved such thoughts to the back of his mind and instantly returned his attention to the King. As herald, that's where his first duties lie.

"Follow in my path, Thengal Cynning," Aragorn directed as he bent back over to study his majesty's progress.

Thengel gave Thorongil a half-hearted glare, but nodded gruffly. Now was not the time to remind his young herald that a lifetime spent fighting orcs and evil men on the rock-strewn fields of Rohan had more than prepared him for this little climb, nor did he wish to point out that, as a man twice Thorongil's age, his limbs were not as spry as they once were, and thus he would need to take shallower steps. Indeed, that Thorongil had not realized this simple fact—meaning that he did not perceive such weakness in his King—made it easy to forgive the fact that Thorongil had seen fit to remind him of the safest way to scale a simple wall.

The King's progress was slow yet steady, and when he reached the top he shamelessly accepted Aragorn's proffered hand. Behind him, the last two soldiers made their ascent, having waited out of respect for their king and also so they might catch him should he falter. Now five men stood, precariously balanced, atop the blockade. Glances left and right revealed that the men were scaling the wall and diving immediately into the battle on the opposite side, and Rohirric battle cries resounded around them.

Yet Aragorn's gaze was drawn towards the pit. Before his eyes lay a two-block swath of destruction, between the blockade and the breached wall. The buildings had been partially destroyed through the course of battle, and Aragorn could discern little difference between them and the blockade he was currently standing on. From this vantage point he could survey the entire battle. The fighters were packed so tightly that they barely had room to swing their swords, and the ground beneath their feet was littered with the bodies of the fallen, sometimes piled two and three men high. Uncaring boots ignored the uneven footing, as breastplates and shields and helms were used by both sides to gain the advantage of height over their foes, and so the dead were trampled most likely past the point of recognition.

Aragorn thought of his crossing in the mountains over the snow-covered battle plain and shivered slightly at the memory of that ground beneath his feet. Somehow, he realized that this fight would be worse for the lack of such a gently obscuring blanket. In the pink-hued amber glow of the setting sun the silvered steel of swords, the bronze of heavy glaives, the tawny shades of Rohirric features and the auburn hues of Dunland men all melted away into clots of red-stained shadow, and Aragorn was forced to look away.

Ahead of the holocaust, a mere two blocks away, Aragorn's breath froze as he caught sight of the breach. It was almost directly in front of him, the part of the south wall that had splintered and buckled inward. The men fighting just before it stood higher than anyone else in the pit, and Aragorn realized that they were standing atop what was left of the gate, a gate that could only be resting atop the poor souls who had died in vain, bracing it. Through the narrow breach, a towering structure lay in splinters. The battering ram, Aragorn surmised, struck down by the Rohirrim who had rushed forth through the breach to meet their foes head on.

Through that narrow passage, and around the fallen battering ram, Aragorn caught glimpses of an entirely different battle. Outside the walls, Irengrim's forces defended the wall against Dunland's reinforcements, but they were heavily outmatched. Léofa's column had arrived just barely in time. If the Dunlanders overran Irengrim and pushed through, what was left of Folca's men in the pit would be overwhelmed and Edbaning would fall. Victory would follow whichever side secured the bottleneck.

"Elbereth…" Aragorn breathed, as a fear he had not felt since the loneliness of his single-handed assault on the orcs at the Battle of the Dam crept through his limbs and into the pit of his stomach. This detached sense of hopelessness born from the assurance of death momentarily quelled the nausea that threatened to overtake him at the sight of such edain carnage.

"Come," Thengel directed sternly, even as he placed a reassuring hand on his herald's shoulder. Any emotions within him were contained behind a mantle of noble determination. "Our purpose is greater served through action."

The steel in Thengel's voice snapped Aragorn out of his reverie, and he returned his full attention to the King. It would only be much later, after many a hard lesson in toil and sacrifice, that he would come to understand the breadth of nobility and valor that made this man a great ruler of men, and he could only hope that, when and if his own time came, he could be half the king that Thengel was.

"One at a time," Aragorn suggested, his mind now fully focused on the task at hand. "If we all leap at once we might upset the balance of this blockade and send it tumbling down around us."

Thengel nodded his agreement. "Jump to land on our enemies," he directed. "Let it be Dunland flesh that breaks your fall."

The three men with them enthusiastically agreed, and by some unspoken agreement, decided upon an order between them. The first man drew his sword and jumped with an indiscernible shout. His aim was true and his sword slashed down through an unguarded Dunland back as he landed, mostly on top of the man he killed. Within moments he was up and fighting, and the second of their band leapt forward.

After the third had safely landed—knocking down two Dunlanders as he went, Aragorn found himself standing side by side with Thengel atop the blockade. Then he looked to the King, who nodded slowly at his herald in unspoken command, and Aragorn instantly understood. Instead of one preceding the other, this time they would leap together, and rather than any sense of propriety both men understood the mutual respect upon which this gesture was based. Indeed, in this dark hour both men preferred it so.

If this was to be their final stand, then they would make it together.

"Last orders, my King?" Aragorn asked, his mind hardly aware of the words his heart had spoken.

"Stay alive," Thengel directed. "I've lost two heralds in this war already, and that is two too many."

Aragorn nodded gravely and together they turned to face the battle, swords drawn and souls ready. Together they made ready to leap from the construct into the heart of the battle below, but just as they were about to jump—

**CRASH!**

The men of Léofa's column broke upon the Dunlanders pressing at breach. The Dunlanders were pinched and lost ground, only there really was no ground left to lose. Their numbers were pressed into the waiting swords of Irengrim's men, but the men of the Second Mark stumbled back, bearing the brunt of Léofa's assault as they felt the south wall at their backs and the enemy at their faces. Thus the rearguard of Irengrim's forces, to avoid being crushed or trampled against the shattered remnants of the gate, retreated swiftly through the breach and flooded the bottleneck. They flowed into the pit, a river of hacking swords, and flooded the confined battlefield. The Dunlanders beleaguering Folca's men in the pit were swiftly overrun.

Alas, all that stood to stem this human tide was the rickety wall that blockaded the southernmost blocks of the city. The wall that Aragorn and King Thengel were currently standing upon.

The entire blockade shifted and shook, as though a great earthquake had awoken beneath it. It had all happened so fast. Aragorn barely had time to gasp before—

**RUMBLE!**

Sections of the construct splintered and fell one after the other in rapid though random succession; and the fighting spilled through the breaches and into the streets behind them. Without thinking Aragorn reached out to grab a hold of the King, meaning to pull Thengel along in a frantic dive forward into the pit, for at the moment they were out of options and the horror that lie in front of them was safer than the explosive debris field that would materialize behind.

He had learned as such through happenstance, at the breaking of the dam in the Midwinter War.

Yet in that instant time seemed to slip away from them, and Aragorn got no further than securing a hand on the strapping of Thengel's breastplate when—

**SHATTER!**

The rickety construct lurched heavily and then seemed to explode from the inside out in a deafening roar. Insecure footing swiftly became none as Aragorn was blown backwards by the force of the sundering impact on the blockade. The roar of the crash resounded deafeningly loud in his ears and Aragorn could barely spare a thought to the fact that he was falling. The last sensation he was aware of was that of his fingers whisking at air, and he knew his hold on King Thengel had failed. Before he could fully realize the implications, Aragorn's breath was forcibly knocked from his lungs and his upturned eyes abruptly closed against the splinters of wood and debris that rained down upon him.

* * *

**Translations: **

_Anor_: the sun

_Romen na carnë_: (Quenya) Sunrise is red.

_Anar carnë an serke carnë_._ An coir huinesse vanwa_: (Quneya) (A) red sun for red blood. For men's lives in darkness lost.

_Yén/yéni_: Elven measurement of time (144 years)/pleural

_Ilúvatar_: for all intents and purposes, this is God.

_Adan/edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race

_Béma_: The name in Rohan for the Vala Oromë

_Elrondion_: son of Elrond.

_Cynning_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)) King

**Places:**

_Westemnet_: The northern Westfold, land that was at one time thickly forested (as opposed to having always been plains) until the Númenórians harvested the wood in the second age.

_Lossarnach_: A flowery vale of the southern White Mountains, near Minas Tirith, and an ancient fiefdom of Gondor.

_  
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	17. Ch 10d: Thorongil's reckoning, part 4

The stars were beautiful.

Aragorn had no idea how he'd come to be lying on his back, gazing up into the heavens, or even how long he'd been there, but at the moment, the beauty of Varda's creation held him captivated. This had to be the northern garden, he realized belatedly, which held more trees than flowers, for why else would the air smell so strongly of wood? Did he come here with Legolas then? The prince always favored this garden during his visits and felt a deep kinship with its trees. But then, what was that dreadful noise? Were his brothers arguing again—and what about? Yet the sound was much too harsh to be comprised of Elven voices. Come to think of it, it sounded like—

"Valar!"

Aragorn shot to a sitting position but instantly regretted it when his head connected with something hard. His world erupted in pain while his vision swam and his stomach roiled, and a colorful string of Dwarfish curses helped pass the time until the pain receded and the world sat still again. When his head finally cleared and his stomach calmed, Aragorn saw that he'd sailed quite far after the blockade had ruptured, and that he'd landed squarely on a mattress that had been separated from its bedding. Not only that, but a table had landed upright with its legs on either side of his torso, and its surface had caught the bulk of the debris that would have otherwise crushed him had it landed on his chest. Through the haze of awe and disbelief, Aragorn thanked the Valar for the good fortune that had undoubtedly spared his life.

No sooner had he done so though did all relief turned to horror—where was the King?

"Thengel!" Aragorn cried as he frantically scrambled out from under the table and off the mattress. "Ai, Thengel Cynning!" he shouted again as he regained his feet. Then he noticed that the fighting now raged all around him. The blockade had been completely sundered, and both Folca's men and the Dunlanders had spilled through the breaches to avoid being crushed by the insurgence of Léofa's column. Either the table had shielded him completely from view or the combatants had thought him already dead, because he was allowed to awaken in his own time into the middle of this fierce battle. How long he had lain unconscious he did not know. Yet Aragorn did not mark how farcically ridiculous his current situation might have been viewed, but whether it was his sudden single-minded determination to find the King that turned his thoughts, or the effects of shock, none could later say.

Thengel had been on his left, Aragorn remembered, and so left he turned, frantically scrambling through the rubble, calling for the King. Yet no answer was forthcoming, and Aragorn had no idea how far the Thengel's body might have been pitched by the force of the violent collapse. Might the King have been thrown right while he himself was tossed left, thus reversing their positions? Aragorn despaired at the plausibility of such an occurrence. It also occurred to him that he was the lone searcher scrambling through the debris in the midst of a vicious battle, and his heart was greatly torn between his loyalties to Folca, which bade him to join the fray, and his loyalties to the King, whom he was not yet ready to give up for dead.

His duty to Thengel won out as he rationed that one man could not turn the tide of such a battle. Of course, this flew in the face of his rational from last year that had afforded him honor and decoration in Medusheld, but he took no heed of how he seemed to bend logic to suit his whims. Gandalf might have been proud.

An odd sight he must have been, this unarmored man crawling around on all fours in the middle of a battle, upturning debris left and right and shouting like a madman; yet be that as it may, no man on either side paid him any heed, and so his search continued unaided and unhindered along the lengths of what had been the blockade in this wide street.

"Thengel Cynning!" he called yet again as he shoved aside a large piece of fallen timber (once a roof support beam), yet with the shifting of that great weight a faint moan reached Aragorn's ears and his eyes alit with hope at last.

"Ai!" he cried as he continued to dig through the rubble. "Thengel, can you hear me?" Two more similarly sized timbers were tossed aside and Aragorn was rewarded by the glint of the King's armor. "Hold on, sire," he directed as if Thengel could hear him as he shoved sticks and planks aside until at last—

"Elbereth…"

The sight that greeted him stole his breath away. Thengel's helm had turned, and a long gash in his forehead bled freely down his face. Aragorn's fingers came away red, but he breathed a great sigh of relief when he found Thengel's pulse. Then with renewed vigor he tore through the remains of the debris trapping the King's body until the rest of the damage was revealed. Thengel's armor was mercifully intact, but a large gash ran the length of his left arm straight down to a splintered half-gauntlet; and his right leg was bent at an unnatural angle. The shield that had been at his back was splintered beneath him, and his sword was missing.

"Hold on, sire. I'll get you out of here."

Aragorn sat back on his heels for a moment, and for the first time since regaining consciousness he took genuine stock of the situation. All around him a battle raged, as the fighting in the pit had spilled out into the streets beyond when the blockade failed. Its remains were everywhere, but with the wide streets of Edbaning now open to them the combatants gave the area a considerable berth as what was left of the blockade was even more unstable than the original. Thus Aragorn found himself a stone's throw from the fighting, but there was no one immediately nearby, nor did anyone appear aware of him.

Aragorn frowned as he debated what to do. He couldn't very well leave the King here, unconscious and injured, even though for the moment he was out of the path of the fighting. That path could always suddenly change, and it wouldn't take much for the piles of debris to shift and bury him again. Being ignored for the moment was a blessing, but it would not keep Thengel safe if Aragorn were to rejoin the battle. That frown became a grimace as the King's new herald realized that there was only one choice if he wanted Thengel to live, for how was he to accomplish it?

Aragorn grit his teeth and gently slid a hand beneath Thengel's back and lifted him into a sitting position. The King lost his helm in the process, revealing a tangled shock of bloodied blood hair. Aragorn involuntarily winced at the sight, as Thengel's coloring was ghostly pale without the balance of the helm's shining gold. However, all emotion was shoved quickly aside as he slipped his other arm beneath the King and then pulled them both to standing. King Thengel was not a small man even without armor, and Aragorn groaned with the considerable effort this feat required. Then as soon as his legs were steady Aragorn crouched down and let gravity pull Thengel forward until he held the King in a fireman's carry. A quick shift and Aragorn had the King draped across both shoulders, one hand securing Thengel's good leg and the other gripping a dangling arm.

And so Aragorn stood in the center of the maelstrom with his royal burden and hastily contemplated how to achieve the impossible. The man, of course, would come to make something of a career of this over the course of his life, forcing all future generations to reevaluate the definition of the word. For now though, carrying an unconscious King through the fighting and out of the city to safety seemed exactly that: impossible.

Edbaning was walled, and there were only two ways out of the city: the south gate and the west gate. Unfortunately, even if Aragorn somehow managed to carry the King across the unstable ruins of the blockade, trying to fight his way through the bloodbath in the pit to reach the south gate was akin to suicide. That left the west gate, but Aragorn seriously doubted he could remove the lock-bars by himself and even if he could, doing so would rip an inviting hole in the city's defenses. No, the west gate needed to hold for as long as possible. He couldn't go that way.

Just as Aragorn felt the icy tendrils of despair start to worm their way into his heart, inspiration struck like lightning. _He_ certainly hadn't come to the city through either gate, and neither had many of those in the King's company. They had scaled the walls with the grapnels the Dunlander's had used, and no order had been given to cut them down. If those ropes had helped them get in, why couldn't they help them get out?

With renewed hope and determination Aragorn secured his hold on the unconscious King and took off at a run, bound for the north wall. He darted expertly through the minefield of locked combatants, occasionally drawing confused shouts from the Rohirrim if they could spare the time for him. Without his helm, sword, or shield Thengel appeared no different than any other soldier of Rohan. Every seasoned soldier was well acquainted with the tempered grief of having to put the fate of a battle above the fate of friend and kinsman, and so Thorongil's diffidence to one man was met with equal parts pity and distaste—his first duty should have been to the fight.

Yet as Aragorn ran, swerving around the combatants or vaulting over the bodies of the fallen, swiftly ducking errant sword slashes, glaive swings, and spear thrusts, any frantic shout meant to halt or question him fell on deaf ears. As herald his first duty was to the King and he needed to get Thengel to safety.

By now the fighting had spilled into the heart of the city four blocks passed the ruined blockade, and Aragorn's legs burned from the effort of safely (and swiftly) navigating it. Finally out of the thick of the battle Aragorn slowed to a halt to adjust his grip on the unconscious King. His left shoulder was beginning to protest the weight, as were the muscles in his back that had to work harder to compensate for that weakness.

It was some odd twist of fortune that dictated _where_ exactly Aragorn stopped.

His grip adjusted and Thengel secured across his shoulders once more, Aragorn casually glanced to his left. He found himself standing at a crossroads, with an unobstructed view of the west gate—

_BOOM!_

—which shuddered once, violently enough to loosen a rain dust.

Aragorn's eyes widened. "The Dunlanders…"

**BOOM!**

The gate shuddered again, and Aragorn felt his blood run cold at the realization that there was no one here to defend it. When it gave, the Rohirrim would be swarmed from behind, and his comrades were too far away and too engrossed in the fighting to even be aware of the danger.

The ever-present knot in the pit of his stomach was threatening to boil over into panic—what was he to do? The Rohirrim needed to be warned, but if he ran back towards the fighting he'd never be able to get Thengel back out again, and his majesty's pulse was weakening. Yet he was the only one in position to give warning.

_**BOOM!**_

The west gate shook again and splintered, deep cracks forming at the epicenter of the battering ram's torment, yet Aragorn stood frozen. Some far corner of his mind fought to urge him into action, but a better part of him was sorely tempted to deposit his majesty on the ground, unsheathe his sword, and charge whatever came through that gate head-on. With Dunland reinforced Edbaning would soon be lost. What did the rest matter any more, save for how they made their ending?

**_BOOM_—CRUNCH!**

More of the gate began to give way, and Aragorn actually felt the breeze that rushed through the cracks at the strike of the ram. One more hit and the gate would give, turning the tide in favor of the enemy. As Strathcomb had been lost, so too would fall Edbaning, pinnacle of the Westfold.

_Strathcomb!_ Aragorn thought suddenly, his eyes smoldering at the memory. By now all that remained of that town was bones and ash, yet the victory had been won. Rohan's strength was not its towns or buildings—it was in its people, and the kingdom would not fall while her men defended it. Resolve now flooded Aragorn's veins, determination banishing hesitation, hope overcoming sudden despair.

_**CRUNCH!**_

The gate splintered, the head of the battering ram punching through the heavy wooden planks at last. Aragorn ignored it though; it was time for the King's herald to perform his duty.

The sound of the battering ram's final blow was obscured by a long, clear note on the herald's horn. The call sounded again as the Dunlanders began hacking their way through the splinters in the gate. Two blows to signal a retreat, Aragorn reasoned, hoping that the men would be drawn towards the sound of the horn.

Having done all he could, Aragorn replaced the horn at his belt and took off again towards the north wall, his face breaking into a tired yet ecstatic grin as shouts of "_Æt Cynning!_" reached his ears, and the sounds of battle followed him. It was still a long sprint from the center of town to the north wall and Aragorn was practically stumbling as he came within sight of it. This section of the city was mercifully clear; the remnants of battle littered the streets but no living souls were anywhere near.

Aragorn barely broke stride as he shifted Thengel's weight entirely onto his right shoulder. When he reached one of the many the staircases leading to the rampart he bent forward and used his left hand to steady himself as he scrambled upwards. His left shoulder though was not pleased to be forced to support such weight and sheer force of will kept his arm from buckling beneath him until he at last cleared the top of the stairs. Then finally he felt his shoulder give and he pitched forward, sprawling face first onto the rampart with the King landing heavily on top of him. His cheek stung as the rough wood tore at his flesh and for a few fleeting moments he lay still, not having the strength to do aught but catch his breath.

The awkward respite did not last long at all, however. A few panted breaths later and Aragorn was shimmying out from beneath the prone form of the King, who graced the moment with a faint groan. Aragorn spared a moment to gently yet hastily role Thengel onto his back.

"Sire, can you hear me?"

But the King was silent, already reclaimed in the grip of oblivion.

"Thengel Cynning?" Aragorn called again, uselessly. The King's pulse was fading and his breath rattled in his chest. Aragorn's face paled as he realized the King internal injuries were worse than he'd first feared, but his fear galvanized him into not wasting more precious time. He scrambled to his feet and checked the ropes, trying to find one that was secure enough to support both their weight at once. Thankfully in this fortune was on their side.

Holding the end of a rope that should suit their needs, Aragorn took a moment to peer over the edge of the palisade. The rampart hadn't seemed so high when he was standing on the ground. He only hoped that his left arm would hold long enough for him to lower the King to safety—and that the rope, which would have to be secured around Thengel's chest, would not aggravate his already extensive injuries.

How Aragorn himself would descend with only one good arm was a problem he wasn't yet prepared to contemplate.

Then a sudden, unnatural gust of warm air stole his attention, and in a rush the point was rendered moot.

**_PHWOOOM!_**

A giant fireball suddenly belched forth in the western part of town. It was as though every last gallon of lamp oil had simultaneously ignited. As the flames mushroomed into a cloud of thick black smoke and then shrank to spread to the surrounding structures Aragorn realized with alarming clarity that was probably _exactly _what had happened. Realizing that the city was lost, the Rohirrim must have set the storehouse ablaze, igniting what was contained within in a last-ditch effort to thwart their enemy. They would rather see Edbaning destroyed than allow it to fall into the hands of Dunland.

Aragorn stood detached from the growing horror before his eyes until another, smaller fireball rose a block over from the first. A building had collapsed, sending the flames leaping briefly upwards as the roof collapsed. The fires were spreading quickly across the dry kindling and thatch that made up the township's buildings and soon all of Edbaning would be engulfed.

_Had this happened at Strathcomb? _Aragorn found himself wondering even as he tore his eyes away from the destruction. _Did the people torch their own village to prevent Dunland from claiming it?_

A question he would have to ask later, if he or anyone else survived the day.

Aragorn abruptly abandoned his musings in favor of action. He swiftly tied the rope about his chest and was back at the King's side a moment later. With the fires spreading as quickly as they were he didn't have time to enact his earlier plan. Instead he hoisted Thengel into another fireman's carry and hurried back to the wall. Then he scrambled up so that he was standing precariously balanced between the spikes of the sharpened palisade poles. He wobbled dangerously for a moment but then his Elven upbringing shone through and he found his balance.

Aragorn took a deep breath. "Valar ve astaldor…"

And then he jumped.

A rush of cold wind enveloped his body as the sense of weightlessness bade him shut his suddenly watering eyes. The roar of the wind and the clamor of the battle faded away as his senses were suddenly overwhelmed, and for a moment the world seemed to exist in slow motion. His thoughts strayed to his Elven family—had his brothers ever fought so insurmountable a battle? Had Elrond ever been as foolish as herald to the High King? Had Glorfindel been aware of the strange sensations of freefall before his death at the feet of the Cirith Thoronath?

Then suddenly his eyes snapped open. "Glorfindel!"

With the sudden thought of the balrog-slayer came the realization that the ropes were longer than the palisade was tall. If he didn't want to share his sword-master's old fate he had better shorten his line. In the same sparse seconds as his cry of realization he managed to shift Thengel's dead weight entirely into his left arm while his right hand sought higher purchase on the rope and not a moment too soon.

SNAP!

The rope pulled taught—

**POP!**

—and suddenly Aragorn's world hazed to white, as if the pain that flooded his entire body was all he'd ever known and all that ever would be. Yet like a storm tide, after the initial punishing crash of the wave the waters made a swift retreat. As the pain receded from his every inch Aragorn rediscovered the ability to breathe. When sight returned to his blinking eyes he found himself dangling four feet above the ground. The rope was wrapped numbingly tight around his right wrist, with considerable slack between that point and the end secured around his torso.

Aragorn's gasping breaths gradually grew longer and longer as the pain throbbed in his shoulder and arm. His vision swam and he winced, shutting his eyes against the swell of nausea. His right shoulder had been dislocated by the sudden arrest of momentum, but as awareness slowly returned it was his _left_ arm that preoccupied him.

It was empty.

The jarring force that ripped his right shoulder from its socket had also torn the King loose from his weaker left-armed grip. Thengel lay face down on the ground below him like a discarded rag doll.

Aragorn shut his eyes against the evidence of his failure. His choices today had had led to disaster and—worse—left others to suffer their cost. Aragorn hung his head, the sting of his failure and shame at his uselessness pricking at his squinted eyes as he dangled there, helpless even to help himself. His right arm was pulled taut, and his left was too weak for him to even lift it. At last his final reserve of hope wore out, and the crushing despair that flooded his soul spilled forth in rivers from his eyes.

In the end he did not know how long he hung suspended from the walls of Edbaning. Long enough for his body to go completely numb and for exhaustion to steal the last of his emotions, and long enough for the air around to grow stifling and for ash to find its way down to flit on the wind before his clouded eyes.

Long enough for the gray shape that materialized out of the encroaching smoke to convince him that he had at last been driven mad.

Aragorn squint his eyes shut, hoping to erase the taunting image, and when he blinked again he nearly laughed to discover that it had worked.

That was of course until he felt his feet lurch beneath him, accompanied by what could only have been described as an impatient whinny.

"Ulmafan!" Aragorn cried in ecstatic realization.

His mare whinnied again and tossed her head, trying to goad her silly two-leg into action. How the man had come to hang like a hay sack in barn she'd never know, but it couldn't have been good for him.

Recovering himself, Aragorn managed to stand balanced atop Ulmafan's hind quarters. This loosened the rope's grip on his wrist enough for him to wriggle free of it. However, without the support of the line Aragorn lost his balance. He tumbled off Ulmafan's back and would have hit the ground hard if it weren't for the rope still secured around his torso. It pulled taut at the last second and wrenched his chest upwards, forcing the air from his lungs at the same instant his knees crashed to the ground.

Aragorn half dangled in a daze for precious, breathless moments before he managed to lean back and take the pressure off his chest. He plopped sorely on his bottom and gradually allowed his breathing to return to normal. Then, finally able to take regular breaths again, his attention was drawn to the tingling pain in his right hand as blood flow returned, and the throbbing pain in his legs as the blood that had pooled there continued to recede. These aches faded into the background as his circulation at last returned to normal.

That's when he noticed how his right arm sat at an odd angle, and he remembered the dislocation. The groan that escaped his lips was more akin to a whine, but then he saw Ulmafan kneel and then lie down beside him and he forced both hands to grab the strapping of her bridle. When she stood again, Aragorn found himself pulled upright with her. His legs felt like putty and fireflies flashed before his vision as for the moment the mare was forced to support all of her master's weight. Soon though he had his feet squarely beneath him, and he felt confident enough to let go.

"Hannon le," he murmured into his mare's soft mane.

A derisive snort was Ulmafan's reply, and Aragorn laughed. Then he released his hold on Ulmafan and, steeling himself, he turned back to the wall. Then he grit his teeth, squinted his eyes, and—

SMACK!

—popped his right shoulder back into place. The sudden sharp pain elicited a keening cry from his parched throat. The pain receded quickly though, as Aragorn stood panting, recovering. He reached up with a leaden left hand to pull apart the knot that bound the rope across his chest in a hazy afterthought.

Then suddenly he remembered the King, lying but a few paces away.

Aragorn was at Thengel's side in an instant, and he could have wept for joy to discover that his Majesty still lived. Aragorn's left arm must have held out long enough to break Thengel's fall, so the final plummet had only been those last four feet. What's more, the King must have hit feet first as the break in his right leg looked worse than it had before. If the fall had been unavoidable, than this surely was the most favorable outcome; Aragorn had to smile at this sudden reversal of fortune.

They were hardly out of danger though, if the increasing smoke in the air was any indication. They would need to move, and swiftly.

Aragorn bade Ulmafan lie down beside the King. Then he straddled her back and pulled Thengel so that he was seated in front of him. His left arm was almost completely numb and his right shoulder throbbed in pain but nevertheless he wrapped both arms around the King and used his legs to urge his mare to standing. He didn't trust either hand alone to keep Thengel from falling and so both would be necessary. Thus he would have to guide his mare with his knees, and he only hoped that his legs were strong enough to do so while maintaining balance.

There was only one way to find out, he realized with a grimace as he urged Ulmafan into a canter away from the town. Behind him it appeared as though the fury of Thangorodrim was contained behind a slight collection of splinters.

* * *

Ulmafan hadn't taken them far before Aragorn saw the afternoon sun glinting brightly atop a nearby hill. Squinting into the west he was able to make out the forms of horses and men in armor and, flying above them, the banners of Westfold. With a shout Aragorn steered his mare towards them. He would have blown the horn had he trusted himself to remove it from his belt without losing his balance or his precarious hold on the King. 

The men had spears in hand and bows notched and ready as Aragorn galloped towards them. Fortunately the sun was at their backs and so they could clearly see that the rider was carrying an injured man and so therefore was no threat to them. The bows lowered but the spears stayed ready until Aragorn drew close enough for the men to recognize that the injured man wore the colors of the King's men.

"Are you men of the Westfold?" Aragorn hurriedly questioned as Ulmafan came to a skidding stop in their midst.

Yet before any of them could answer this seemingly bizarre question (for whom else could their company possibly have been?) one of them stepped forward with a shout:

"Thengel Cynning!"

The entire company flew instantly into an uproar and men rushed in from all sides. Ulmafan back-peddled and would have reared had she not been ever-mindful of her delicate burden. She whinnied and stomped her agitation.

"The King is injured—is there a healer amongst you?" Aragorn cried out as many hands sought to pull Thengel from his grasp, and his weak arms were forced to relinquish their hold. The King was swiftly carried out of sight and Aragorn hastily dismounted. His legs bowed slightly and he leaned into Ulmafan's side, silently cursing his body's betrayal.

"I am Freca of Helm's Deep," he heard a voice call out, and he turned swiftly to see a man approach him, grim and stern in the beginnings of old age. Yet when Aragorn turned the horn came into view, and the man gasped. "Who are you that bears Hagar's horn?"

"I am one of Lord Folca's men," Aragorn explained. "The King's herald fell in Strathcomb and his majesty set me in his stead ere the march on Edbaning. My name is Thorongil."

Freca's eyes alit with recognition, and his grim countenance seemed to soften a bit. "Aye, your name is known to me. Folca spoke very highly of you."

Aragorn bowed his head, a cold numbness creeping over him like swiftly rolling fog. "So he is dead then."

Freca once again grew grim. "Dúnhere pleaded that the last of the garrison make haste and so I led forth what of our company that remained in the Deep. Alas that we arrived too late, after the fires started. We have seen none of our kinsmen escape, nor any men of Dunland—though our archers stand in readiness should they manage it. Until you came riding forth, we had given everyone up for dead."

Aragorn looked up at that, reminded of how the men of Rohan did not look to hope and seemed overly willing to tally their casualties before the end of battle. There was a fine line between pragmatism and pessimism and the Rohirrim toed it heavily; yet Aragorn could not fathom it, not during the Midwinter War and certainly not now.

"There were many yet alive before the fires. I do not believe that I am the only one to escape them."

"Perhaps then more will come," Freca suggested, though his tone held little hope. "Yet I would not look for them. If Folca's men managed to trap the Dunlanders within the walls, they will not flee the fires lest the enemy follow them to safety."

"The fighting was not contained within the walls," Aragorn told him. "Not all of Irengrim's forces would have pressed through the breach in the south wall when Léofa's column broke upon the enemy. Many men should still have been engaged outside the city."

Freca nodded grimly. "My company arrived in time to see fires claim the western wall. Many men had been fighting outside the west gate, but we lost sight of them in the smoke and flames. If others do survive it will be a miracle unto Béma and one we dare not look for. Not on a day he has already blessed us." The man smiled at Aragorn's searching look. "Today he has spared our King."

Aragorn's eyes widened at the reminder of Thengel. "King Thengel is gravely injured; do you have any healers?"

Fraca's grim expression returned once more. "Many of my kinsmen have earned their skills in battlefield triage, but a true healer of the guild? Nay, we did not think to bring them into this tragedy." Then a sudden thought widened his eyes. "That would make _you_ the ranking healer here."

Aragorn tried his hardest to stifle the sigh, but didn't quite manage it. "As I feared," he admitted. "Take me to him."

Freca nodded. He led Aragorn back around the makeshift encampment—which was little more than clusters of men and horses with camp gear and spare weapons strewn about—to the far side of the rise. There, sheltered at the base of the hill, they found King Thengel being tended by two soldiers.

"How fares the King?" Freca called out as he and Aragorn made their way down.

One soldier was too preoccupied securing a bandage around Thengel's left arm to pay any attention to the sudden approach of their captain and the man who'd brought the King out of Edbaning. The other though dutifully looked up.

"The laceration to his Majesty's arm was not as bad as we first thought. We've stopped the bleeding, though it should be properly stitched when we get to the Deep."

Meanwhile the other soldier finished his task and joined the conversation. "The cut on his Majesty's forehead was superficial and had already closed by the time you arrived," he informed Aragorn. "Other than that, out King's right leg is badly broken and will need to be set before he can be moved again."

Aragorn nodded, his healer's mind digesting this information. "Have you assessed any internal injuries?" he asked quite plainly as he finished the trek down the hill and came to kneel beside the unconscious King.

The two impromptu healers gaped at him with a mixture of shock, confusion, and suspicion.

"He is Thorongil, the Northman of whom the Marshal spoke so highly," Aragorn heard Freca announce from behind him. "It was he who tended Captain Fengel outside of Strathcomb. You would do well to listen to him."

Aragorn saw the confusion and suspicion melt away, though the shock remained for a moment before the men shook themselves out of it. None of them noticed when Freca departed back up the hill.

"Nay," the older of them replied, hastily recovering himself. "We dared not remove his armor this far from aid."

Aragorn blinked, realizing that the negation was in response to his earlier question and not to Freca's recommendation. Then he frowned; if Thengel truly _was_ sporting internal injuries, then the rigidity of the full plate armor was currently binding and supporting those injuries. Aragorn had exhausted his healing supplies in tending to Captain Fengel; even if his suspicions were confirmed there was nothing he could do for the King out here. The support of the armor would buy them time but Thengel needed to be taken to Helm's Deep, and swiftly.

At length Aragorn released a frustrated sigh, nodding. "I'm almost certain the King has several broken ribs," he told the two makeshift healers. "I fear the tale is worse, but you are right. We must get him to Helm's Deep, the sooner the better."

"His Majesty's right leg is broken in two places," the younger of the two informed him. "It will be difficult to set."

Aragorn was already scrutinizing the leg in question, running a hand over each break in turn with a trained, delicate touch. His healer's instincts were keen but he could not help the frown. Thoughts of Elrond flashed unbidden through his mind and he teetered briefly on the edge of despair, though not for the distance that separated him from his foster father but rather for that which separated his own meager skills from those of the greatest healer in Middle-Earth.

"First the one to his thigh," Aragorn directed, pushing those thoughts away. Now was hardly the time for lamentation. "I'll need one of you to support his lower leg," Aragorn continued, "and the other to pin his shoulders. The pain of this may rouse him."

His two helpers nodded to each other and wordlessly took their positions. Once they were in place Aragorn pressed one palm firmly on Thengel's thigh, just below the hip bone. His other hand he slipped beneath the back of the King's knee.

"Ready?" he asked them.

"Ready," the two men echoed together.

Aragorn took a deep breath, steeling himself. "_Mínë_…" he muttered under his breath. "_Atta_…" His two assistants exchanged meaningful glances though Aragorn didn't mark them. He was too busy concentrating to even notice he was counting aloud. _Neldë!_"

A quick, firm shift of his hands and Thengel's femur slid back into its proper alignment. The King moaned weakly but gave no other signs of waking.

"You!" Aragorn glanced sharply at the man supporting Thengel's shin. "Change places with me; make sure this bone does not shift while I set the other."

The man nodded. "Deorwine."

Aragorn blinked in confusion.

"My name," the man clarified with a smirk even as he moved to take Aragorn's place at Thengel's hip. "Deorwine, son of Gleowine."

Aragorn tipped his head, smiling slightly. Then he looked to the man at the King's head.

"Folcred," the man introduced himself. "Son of Brego."

Aragorn nodded once to him as well. "Well met, though the rest of the pleasantries will have to wait."

Folcred renewed his grip on the King's shoulders and nodded his readiness. Deorwine, smirk banished now in the face of the impending task, secured his hands around Thengel's thigh and prayed the bones would stay in place. His gaze was hesitant when he looked to Aragorn, wordlessly telegraphing that he was as ready as he would ever be.

Aragorn grit his teeth as he ran his hands over the break, thankful that it encompassed only one bone and not both and that setting Thengel's femur hadn't caused this one to worsen through kinetics. Once again he counted aloud under his breath ("_Mínë… Atta …Neldë!_") and then he pulled and twisted in one fluid movement. He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the bone snap into place.

"It is finished," he announced as he removed his hands. "Now we need a splint."

"Swords work well for splints," Folcred offered.

Aragorn nodded. "We'll need three. And strips of cloth to secure them."

Deorwine wordlessly unbuckled his sheathed sword from his belt and set it aside. "I'll fetch the cloth," he announced as he stood. He began his trudge back up the hill without preamble.

Grinning, Aragorn shook his head and followed suit, as did Folcred. As it turned out, the swords of Rohan were slightly shorter than Aragorn's, which was of Elven make. Thus his sword was set beneath Thengel's leg while those of his assistants were fixed along each side. All three hilts rested at the King's ankle to restrict its movement.

Deorwine was not gone long, and he returned with a handful of cloth to see Thorongil and Folcred holding the swords in place, waiting for him.

"From my horse's saddle blanket," he announced, and numerous strips of heavy wool tumbled from his fingers onto the ground within easy reach. Soon the splint was as secure as they could make it.

"We must get him to Helm's Deep," Aragorn reminded them when they were through. "Who here has the fastest horse?"

"We aren't making a litter?" Folcred asked, clearly confused. "You did so for Captain Fengel…"

"I feared the motion of a horse would tear the captain's stitches," Aragorn informed him. "That is no danger here, and we have better need of haste."

"Felaróf could keep pace with any other you could name," said Deorwine, answering Aragorn's question. "Especially now without his saddle."

"Your own mare is fleet of foot," Folcred told Aragorn. "Should not a healer make the ride?"

Aragorn bit back a grimace. "As I told Dúnhere ere he left with Captain Fengel… I am still new to this land and though I can espy Helm's Deep on a map I am not certain I could find it across the wilderness."

Folcred nodded, accepting this.

"I'll fetch my horse," Deorwine announced. Then he stood and climbed back up the hill again. He returned a few moments later, leading a tall chestnut stallion by the reins with Freca following close behind.

"Deorwine tells me you have done what you can," Freca said to Aragorn as he came to stand at the base of the hill.

Aragorn nodded as he stood. "There rest falls on your healers in the Deep."

"They are guild-trained," Freca said by way of reassurance. "If his Majesty survives the ride it will be well."

"He will survive," Aragorn assured, surprising himself at the confidence he heard in his voice.

"We should go," said Deorwine as he swung up onto his stallion's bare back. "Lift the King up to me."

The three men on the ground easily lifted Thengel upright but it was a challenge getting him onto the horse. By the time they got him situated in front of Deorwine Aragorn regretted that they hadn't had the stallion lie down.

"I'll see you in the Deep!" Deorwine called out right before Felaróf bounded forward and broke into a full gallop. He bent towards the southeast and soon shrank from sight, yet Aragorn's worried gaze lingered even after they had disappeared over the horizon.

"This war met a costly end," Freca spoke at length, breaking the silence. "Thanks to you it will be hailed a victory and not the tragedy it threatened to become."

Aragorn didn't stir, even when he realized Freca was speaking directly to him. His gaze may have been fixed southeast but his thoughts lay far to the northwest. To this day Elrond had not yet entirely recovered from Gil-Galad's death. Here, in the middle of the vast emptiness of the Riddermark, Aragorn grew a little closer to understanding why.

"_Captain!_"

The moment was abruptly broken by a shout from atop the hill. Freca instantly turned around to see who was calling for him, and Aragorn followed suit. Folcred, it turned out, had already made his way back up the hill unnoticed.

"What is it, Parda?" Freca called up to the young man in full armor who came to a sudden stop halfway down the hill.

"Men, milord," the young man, Parda, replied hastily. "We've spotted men escaping the fires!"

"_Our_ men?" Aragorn asked quickly.

"Aye, judging by the glint of their armor."

"Tell the archers to ride forth!" Freca barked the command even as he started running back up the hill. "Give cover to the survivors!"

"Yes, milord!" Parda turned on his heel and swiftly fled back up the hill, though by then Freca had nearly closed the gap between them. Aragorn—who started running only a hair's breadth after Freca—had already overtaken him. Indeed, Strider managed to reach the top at the same time as the young messenger, though he was panting heavily when he got there.

From the top of the hill Aragorn easily found a suitable vantage point from which to witness the sprinting approach of the survivors. It was perhaps seven hundred yards from the hill to the inferno that had been Edbaning. A swarm of runners were making a mad dash for their comrades on the hill, though they were barely a quarter of the way there. Equally a quarter of the way out from the hill, a small host of mounted archers were galloping towards the sprinters. Aragorn had barely remembered to discern the Rohirrim from the Dunlanders by their glinting armor when the first volley of arrows sailed into the approaching throng. For the twenty-five archers in the company, twenty-five men were cut down before Aragorn's eyes.

Twenty-five Dunlanders, who had abandoned glaive, spear, and pilfered sword in their last-ditch efforts to avoid burning alive.

Then the archers stopped their charge and arranged their horses into a rough line stretching across the plain. Aragorn's eyes widened in disbelief when the remaining Dunlanders didn't even slow down, but rather raised their arms above their heads just as twenty-five bow strings sang and the death toll grew to fifty.

Still they ran, the Dunlanders with their open palms stretched to the sky and the Rohirrim beside them paying no heed. Aragorn stood frozen, unable to possibly prevent what he saw unfolding before his disbelieving eyes. Stricken, he merely averted his gaze ere he witnessed the number reach seventy-five.

"I count one hundred and seven helms!" he heard a man shout from off to his left.

"By their armor I make them of the Second Mark," he heard another reply to the first, and so Aragorn looked up again. His gaze was haunted, but the fog that had settled over his eyes began to clear as he gave increasing scrutiny to the incoming Rohirrim. Sure enough their coloring marked them as men of Irengrim's forces. Someone nearby recognized the Second Marshal in the approaching sprinters and gave a shout and those meager few who did not ride at Freca's command echoed him. Within moments the hill was ringing with cries of "_Lóca Irengrim néalǽcan!_" and "_Irengrim campealdor áspédan!_"

Aragorn was sure that this was good news for the Rohirrim, yet his ability to share in his comrades' joy was severely hindered by the lack of anyone wearing the colors of the Third Mark in the approaching throng. Not even the men of Léofa's column. As the first sprinters reached the base of the hill flanked by the returning archers and the men of the Second Mark were cheerfully reunited with these few latecomers of the Third, Aragorn forced himself to give a healer's scrutiny to the escapees. This was neither the time nor the place to give into despair over the apparent decimation of Folca's entire éored.

History recorded that Elrond did not afford himself such a selfish luxury, and moreover Folca would not have wanted that.

Fortunately it turned out that the escapees, though panting and out of breath, were hardly in need of a healer's attention. Some were sporting mild to moderate wounds on their torsos and arms, but since anything more severe would have prevented them from making the mad dash to safety behind the line of mounted archers none of them were badly in need of his services. And so Aragorn stood, surround by a sea of tired, smiling faces as strains hurried Rohirric between reunited friends and comrades washed over his ears too swiftly and too thick for him to translate. As a citizen of ruined Strathcomb, adopted kinsman of a Marshal whom all feared dead, and herald to a gravely injured and therefore absent King, Thorongil knew more of loneliness and isolation now than even Estel had tasted in his selfish southward flight.

Yet when he glanced at his hands and studied their crimson stains he mused that perhaps he should have felt quite at home.

Then a segment of overheard conversation caught his attention. "_... but I had assumed Folca would do so._"

Aragorn turned sharply towards the voice and discovered Freca speaking with an older soldier wearing the colors of the Second Mark. From the decoration and quality of the man's armor Aragorn guessed this to be the Second Marshal himself.

"What news of the Third Marshal?" he called out to them, interrupting the conversation. Freca and Irengrim turned to see him running towards them.

Freca looked vaguely annoyed to be interrupted but Marshal Irengrim appeared confused—until he spotted the herald's horn hanging from Aragorn's belt. As per Rohirric custom, the King's herald had the authority to speak for him on the field of battle and so the Marshal acknowledged Aragorn with a hasty nod.

"I met Captain Léofa outside the city walls," Irengrim explained. "After the press at the south gate had eased he sent most of his host inside the walls to assist Marshal Folca's men while I kept my men engaged with those of the enemy who still sought entrance. When the horn call came I led my éored around to the west gate and eventually we overcame the Dunlanders, but by then the fires had spread. We cleared the gate so that those inside the city could escape, but then I met Lieutenant Arlath—" here Aragorn's eyes widened at the mention of his friend "—and he told me that Folca's men were going to keep the gate at their backs and trap as many of the enemy within the walls as they could manage. However, whatever remained of Dunland's forces outside the gate were converging and so to protect Arlath's flanks we stove them off. Captain Freca's archers shot down the remains of their numbers in the chase across the plains." Here Irengrim cast his eyes downward, his grief quite apparent. "Alas, I have no further word of Captain Léofa or Marshal Folca, though his lieutenant yet lived ere we retreated."

Aragorn stole a furtive glance towards the city. For better or worse Edbaning still stood firm though engulfed in flame, as though Orodruin itself had relocated there.

"You mean there are men still _alive_ in there?" he rasped, his throat choking on the sudden surge of hope and despair entwined.

Both Irengrim and Freca opened their mouths to respond, but truly the question had been rhetorical. Before either of them could get a word in Aragorn brought two fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. Then he turned and ran—seemingly in a random direction. However, both the Marshal and the captain saw a dappled gray mare come galloping towards him from somewhere unseen. Then, before either of them could call out to have him stopped, they watched as Aragorn swung himself up on Ulmafan's back without either of them breaking stride. He swiftly found his seat upon her bare back, and the two commanders—along with the rest of their combined host—were forced to watch, slack-jawed, as the stranger from the north rode headlong back towards the burning city.

"That boy is either very brave, or very stupid," Freca announced, the dust from Aragorn's departure still hanging in the air.

Irengrim snorted; the abbreviation of a sad, half-hearted laugh. "There's a difference?"

* * *

Aragorn clung to Ulmafan with his legs and wound his uncooperative fingers into her mane. Fortunately he hadn't been required to do anything strenuous in tending the King, but the effort to lift Thengel up to Deorwine atop Felaróf had taken its toll. His right shoulder was throbbing and his left arm had been coldly numb when he pulled himself atop his mare. Thankfully he had room to allow her momentum to do most of the work for him, but now as he galloped back across the plains towards the town he had to guide Ulmafan with his knees because he hadn't the dexterity to hold the reins, never mind that he doubted if he had the strength to even lift them. 

Ruminations on his body's failings were diligently shoved aside however, as he drew closer to Edbaning. Marshal Irengrim reported that he'd seen Folca's men alive inside the west gate, and Arlath had been among them. As Aragorn bent Ulmafan's course westward around the palisade he felt hope rekindle in his heart with a fierceness he had not felt since he stumbled into the conflagration that had been Strathcomb. There were men yet alive inside the town; the situation here had not been as bleak as he had feared. Aragorn was determined to see that hope come to fruition, even if he did little more than witness the retreat of the last survivors of Folca's éored.

And witness he did.

He found the western wall still standing, consumed by flames and yet refusing to collapse. A giant hole had been ripped in the center of the wall, where the gate once stood. The remains of the Dunland battering ram still smoldered, its fires burning low. Small fires burned all around it, consuming the larger splinters of gate whose skeleton rested precariously against the charred husk of the battering ram. Most of its wood had burned away, the smaller pieces falling from its smoking iron frame like overcooked meat drips from the bone. This hulking mass very nearly sealed the hole in the wall, but smoke still billowed out through the cracks.

Smoke, and desperate soldiers.

Aragorn saw a line of them, staggering, crawling, carrying each other away from the fires to safety. Smoke wafted from their blackened bodies, soot-covered to the point where their appearance and labored scrambling likened them more to orcs than men. Aragorn veered towards them, at first intending to direct them back towards where Irengrim was regrouping, but as he saw them reach the hill only to collapse in exhaustion, some even falling face first in the dirt before they reached it, he knew the thousand yards that lie between them and Irengrim would be beyond them.

He had tried to count them as he approached, but after forty heads his tired eyes could no longer discern between the unnumbered and those he'd already counted. The hill practically swarmed with them now, few standing, many sitting, some lying down. All blackened, all exhausted, all reeking of sweat and cinder. Not one of them appeared uninjured.

"Ai, soldiers of Rohan!" Aragorn called out as Ulmafan came to a skidding stop. However, his arrival garnered little attention. Some glanced in his direction but most paid him no heed if even they registered his sudden presence among them. Many were dazed, some might have already slipped into shock, and the rest were tending to their wounds, tending to their brethren's burns, tending to the recently deceased.

"Marshal Irengrim escaped the blaze!" Aragorn shouted, trying to rouse them with happy news. It earned him a few more inquisitive stares in his direction. "The last of the garrison at Helm's Deep has arrived. Irengrim and five-score followers have regrouped beneath the banners of Westfold!"

"Where?" a haggard voice rasped out. Aragorn couldn't identify the speaker in the sea of blackened flesh.

"Some thousand yards to the northwest." There were happy exclamations amidst the sighs and groans and Aragorn thought to add: "And though he was injured, the King himself survived. Even now he is being tended." This was not entirely true, as Aragorn wasn't certain that Thengel still lived, but then it wasn't exactly a lie and these men needed to hear him say it.

The groans gave way to gasps and exclamations, and the news was repeated to those who might not have heard, and again to those who were still stumbling in. Prayers of thanks rose up in slurred and hurried Rohirric speech.

"But tell me," he interrupted them, impatience hardening his voice. "What news of the battle? What of Marshal Folca and his men?"

"The Marshal ordered us to flee," one man answered in a tired, shaky voice. Aragorn's gaze swam through the crowd, trying to find the speaker, and he saw a man rise shakily from his knees. "Edbaning is lost," the man continued as he found his feet. "But the enemy is trapped." The man staggered a few heavy paces until he was able to reach out and grab hold of Ulmafan's bridle to support himself. Had Aragorn been in his right mind at the time he would have been surprised that his mare allowed this transgression.

"But he wouldn't leave," the man went on, looking up at Aragorn with glazed eyes shining brightly in his sooty, bloody face. He was in shock, Aragorn realized. "The Marshal… not while his men still fought… and they wouldn't leave… wouldn't leave the town… to the en—enemy." The man's vision unfocused and he collapsed down to his knees, yet still he maintained his grip on Ulmafan's bridle. The mare bowed her head as if to accommodate him.

Aragorn knew the man needed medical attention and swiftly, along with everyone else that had gathered here, and his heart ached that he couldn't give it to them. He could be of no help to them with two useless arms. Stricken, he looked up into the flames burning not a hundred yards away. Men were still trickling out through the burning holes on either side of the obstructed entrance. Somewhere behind the wall a building suddenly collapsed, causing a geyser of sparks to momentarily stream towards the sky before raining back down again. Could he dare to hope that Folca and Arlath were still alive in there? If the Third Marshal was determined to stay and fight until the bitter end then rest assured his lieutenant would have stayed with him, so Aragorn knew they would not be one of the lurching, unidentifiable unfortunates migrating in an ant-like stream towards this rendezvous. If they did survive then they would be the last to leave.

Still men were escaping, fleeing from Edbaning like rats from a sinking ship. Aragorn saw some of them turn left or right instead of following the crowd, and he knew that those men had to be Dunland's survivors. They did not try to attack the Rohirrim once outside the walls, nor did they try and hinder their escape in any way. The men of Dunland were more concerned with their own survival now than with making war, and as they fled Aragorn found that he was glad for the absence of Freca's archers.

Still men fled, and Aragorn knew beyond hope or despair that Folca and Arlath were not among them. Still Aragorn sat atop his mare, at war with himself over what he should do. The strength of his determination fought against his physical weakness in his chest, and hope vied with despair supremacy in his stomach. He was for the moment both sweating and chilled, achy and numb, feeling his heart beat wildly against his ribs while his stomach danced a lively jig. In that moment, if his body would allow it, he could have faced a hundred orcs; yet if his mind was willing to relent, he could have slept away the age. Was this the drunken giddiness that came from overexertion? Aragorn honestly couldn't say.

"But you…"

Aragorn's gaze was suddenly drawn to his forgotten informant. The man was saving himself from sprawling with the hand on Ulmafan's bridle, and his arm was trembling.

"You'll save them… Thorongil," he rasped, his words slurring as his tongue grew too thick to accommodate speech. Yet his choice of words widened Aragorn's eyes.

"Thorongil Ár… _ánerians_…" The man's voice trailed for the last time. His grip failed and he fell at last. He landed on his back, spread-eagle, eyes fixed unseeing towards the sky.

Aragorn stared down at the man with wide eyes a hanging jaw, those final words ringing like a benediction in his ears. This man, whom he was certain he'd never met before, had known his name and title, and there had been certainty in his failing voice, when he added another. _Ánerians_…

Aragorn grit his teeth, and his body stilled. As his gaze shifted from the dead soldier back to the inferno of Edbaning, hope and determination won. The flow of escapees had all but stopped, but Aragorn took that to mean that there would be fewer obstacles in his path. He squeezed his legs and Ulmafan launched into a gallop.

"Noro lim!" he encouraged her as he held her to their course, straight towards the ruins of the west gate and narrow, fire-framed passages into the city that loomed liked the gates of Hell. Ánerians the man had called him, and its echo had galvanized him. Unlike the Rohirrim, he was never one to assume a story's ending before reaching the final pages. He did not leave Folca to the orcs last winter, and he would not abandon him now.

Ánerians…

If that was to be his anessë in Rohan than perhaps, just perhaps, his life here was not as empty as in despair he had supposed. _To avenge Estel's stupidity through Thorongil's toil_… His words to Gandalf concerning the nature of his self-imposed exile, yet was that all he was achieving here? He had been so focused on burying his past that he paid little attention to his present. Until, of course, Thorongil's home and family had been threatened. Then he had woken up, only to discover that the life he had been hiding in was not such a hollow façade after all. When Aragorn finally accepted Thorongil's life as something more than Estel's punishment, he was surprised to realize that such a life had been worth living. Indeed, it was not _Estel_ who rode suicidally towards Edbaning. Rather it was Thorongil, and the man who would be Aragorn had at last made peace with that.

_Ánerians_…

The name comforted him, because thanks to Lindewyn's lessons he knew what it meant. When it was decided that his true name and heritage should be hidden from him Elrond had named him _Estel_, for he was to be the hope of men and elves; and with his last words, a nameless soldier of Rohan had agreed. Ánerians he had called him, and Aragorn welcomed it.

_Ánerians…_

Deliverer.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Cynning_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): King; therefore _Æt Cynning_: to the King.

_Valar ve astaldor…_: (Q) The Valar favor (lit: like) the brave (lit: valiant (pleural)).

_Hannon le_: thank you

_Béma_: The name in Rohan for the Vala Oromë

_Mínë… Atta …Neldë!_: (Q) One… Two… Three!

_Lóca Irengrim néalǽcan!_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): Behold Irengrim approaches!

_Irengrim campealdor áspédan!_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): Commander Irengrim escaped!

_Ár_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): herald, so _Thorongil Ár_: Thorongil Herald, a title

_Noro lim_: ride on

_A__nessë_: after-name. Examples would be Gil-Galad (Ereinion) and Eluchil (Dior).

_Ánerians_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): deliverer

**Places:**

_Cirith Thoronath_: The Eagle's Cleft, part of the Encircling Mountains above Gondolin.

_Thangorodrim_: the volcanic mountains above Morgoth's fortress of Angband.

_Orodruin_: Mount Doom.

* * *

Author's notes: 

Thank you kindly to everyone who has waited patiently for this update. Thanks also for your reviews and I remind you that if you wish a reply, either sign in or leave a valid email address. For news on the next update, check my profile.

Also, I'm tempted to add "action/adventure" as a secondary genre for this story, as, well, it has considerable action and adventure in it. However, for every action chapter there are at least two non-action chapters, and I don't want to falsy advertise. I'd appreciate hearing your thoughts on the matter so if you could leave them with your reviews I'd greatly appreciate it.


	18. Ch 10e: Thorongil's reckoning, part 5

Glorfindel always favored white horses, or so the rumor went. Of all the horses that had been bred in Imladris since its founding, the balrog-slayer always managed to appropriate a white one for himself just as his previous one earned retirement. In amusing defiance of the law of averages, most of these horses were stallions. There were, however, a few mares mixed in at random intervals, and most likely in the hope of engineering even more white horses for himself, Glorfindel freely encouraged those mares to breed. Yet to his supposedly continuing dismay, very rarely did this actually result in a white foal, as the coloring of the mother seemed to have little to do with the coloring of her offspring. These attempts produced many light-colored chestnuts and roans, with occasional darker colors thrown in depending on the shade of the father. Yet in all his millennia of trying for white, only once had a gray foal been born to one of Glorfindel's mares.

And she had been gifted to Aragorn on the day he came of age.

Ulmafan had been his friend and companion through many dangers: some alone, some in the company of his brothers or Legolas, some in errand for the rangers. Aragorn would declare without hesitation that she had severed him faithfully for all of their seven years together, from his first efforts at breaking her for the saddle right up to this very moment.

Of course, if one were to ask Ulmafan, _she_ would just as readily declare that she'd spent the last seven years merely trying to keep the reckless two-leg alive, which she was absolutely certain he would not be if it weren't for her more than considerable efforts.

In moments like these, it would be hard to disagree with her.

The ground was littered with burning debris, some parts quietly smoldering while others were still brightly aflame. Aragorn allowed Ulmafan to choose her own path—in fact, his only thought for holding the reins was to keep them from falling before her feet. It didn't matter how they got there, so long as the mare kept them running straight for what remained of the west gate. If she had any mutinous thoughts, Aragorn was ready with his heels and a list of stern words. He was absolutely certain that men were still trapped behind the walls, his friends included, and he was not about to abandon them now. Abandonment was _Estel's_ trademark; it sure as hell wasn't _Thorongil's_, and as long as Aragorn could still draw breath and hold himself upright on his horse, he would make certain it never would be.

"Noro lim, Ulmafan! Noro lim!"

The west wall of Edbaning was miraculously still standing, though every few seconds a piece of it would fall away, tumbling down into the fires that consumed it and sending sparks and burning embers raining down in all directions. Soon the approach to the gate became burning alleyway, a gauntlet of smoke and flame. Then suddenly the charred carcass of the Dunland battering ram appeared in their path, covered by the smoking iron bones of the west gate, as very little wood remained to be burned. Yet even without fuel the fires still raged, making the metal glow molten red. There, sticking up and striving to block his path, the latticework grinned at him like the mouth of hell, and Aragorn's last disjointed thought as his eyes slammed shut without his permission was that if ever he came to stand before the Morannon itself, he would have a frame of reference.

Then came the all-too-familiar feeling of weightlessness as his mare once again leapt through the air. Aragorn bent down close to Ulmafan's neck and grit his teeth as the hot breath of the dying city assaulted his skin. The world rocked and lurched beneath him, but the final resounding concussion that shook his very bones alerted him to the fact that they were through the gate even before the mare could regain her bearings and whinny at him, which she promptly did.

It took a few moments for Aragorn's stomach to sit still again, and then a few additional moments after that for his muscles to unclench themselves and allow him to relax and straighten up. He breathed an enormous sigh of relief as he did so—which was more akin to the shuddering inhale one indulges in after holding their breath for too long, while gratuitously petting Ulmafan's neck in appreciation and gratitude.

Then he opened his eyes, and as the sight that greeted him stole his breath away he lacked even the presence of mind to utter an oath.

The wide streets were still intact, and right now in this section of town they were deserted. Only the fallen remained in the road, assorted weaponry strewn about in their midst. Yet somehow the buildings were still standing, though they did not appear to be made of wood, or masonry, or any other material in the craft of the children of Ilúvatar. No, this empty stretch of Edbaning seemed to have been wrought of flame. Houses stood, row upon row, as neat and tidy as he remembered even as their walls burned, their roofs burned, their fences burned. Everywhere, everything burned in an un-consuming inferno. Flames sat upon the town almost in decoration, as dually recognized and ignored as the clothing upon his back. Balrogs should have lived here, some part of him mused, but never men, though just as surely men had died here.

And they were burning, too.

Ulmafan stood, whinnying and tossing her head, trying to get Aragorn's attention, but his gaze was fixed on the nightmarish panorama in front of him. Everything was burning and that was all that he could see, all that he could hear, all that he could _smell_, and with that realization he finally gagged, choking on the smoke and the stench that hung in the air; a stench that was forever burned into his memory from his time at the field hospital during the Midwinter War. Straining for air Aragorn threw his head back, instinctually seeking the sky—seeking anything that wasn't aflame. Unfortunately the flames had grown so tall that they partially blocked his view, and whatever was left of heavenly blue was blotted out by smoke, as thick and dark as ink. A strangled cry passed Aragorn's lips when he saw that the heavens were burning too.

"Ilye Vardo eleni…"

He was far too numb to discern between the hope that had been and the despair that now descended in its wake, but at least some parts of his mind were still functional. He looked back through the way he came in time to see a large hunk of wall collapse down atop the remains of the gate, pulling tendrils of smoke and causing geysers of embers as it went. As the horrid CRASH reverberated in his ears above the cackle of the flames Aragorn realized with a sickening weight in the pit of his stomach that the west gate had finally shut itself for good. There would be no going back the way he came. In fact, there had been no going that way for some time now, and he realized that the only reason he made it through was because Ulmafan could jump higher and farther than either man or elf.

Were the men really trapped here, or had they simply fled back towards the south gate? If that was indeed the case, then Aragorn would gladly put up with the memory of his reckless stupidity in charging through the west gate for as long as Folca chose to admonish him for it. It was with these thoughts in mind that Aragorn urged Ulmafan into as fast a gallop as she felt safe with, bound for the south gate.

The first thing Aragorn learned on this ride was that not all of Edbaning survived being decked in flame. Actually, as Ulmafan was forced to dance around, over, under, through, and between the burning husks of homes and buildings, Aragorn was convinced that the sight that greeted him when he first entered was a present from whichever Vala he'd managed to recently annoy and he made a mental note to appease whomever it was as soon as fate granted him the opportunity. This wasn't some waking nightmare, as he had at first in his horror thought he'd blundered into. No, this was Strathcomb all over again, and once again it was up to Ulmafan to lead him safely through it.

Once again, Aragorn allowed the mare to choose her path through the fiery labyrinth. He held onto the reins out of sheer habit, even as his hands were better occupied winding tight knots in Ulmafan's mane, and he focused his attention on the devastation around him. The closer they got towards the center of town, the more bodies he discovered. Most were too badly burned and blistered to have any hope of identifying the unfortunate soul, and the only thing that made the Rohirrim stand apart from the Dunlanders was their armor. As he rode past more and more examples of each, Aragorn forced himself to not keep score.

With the way the flames had consumed the town, Ulmafan had to take an incredibly winding path to the south gate, eventually coming at it from the northeast. As they grew closer to what had once been the blockade, Aragorn caught the sound of raised voices. Then finally the smoke parted like a veil and at last he saw living men! There were dozens of them, organizing themselves, supporting the wounded, struggling to cross the exceedingly unstable remains of the blockade to reach the pit, and the gate that lay beyond.

Yet with each new set of feet to strive for purchase on the few remaining piles of debris untouched by fire, the structural integrity weakened. Ulmafan slowed to an uneasy stop as she sensed Aragorn's hesitancy. The rickety stacks surely wouldn't hold long enough to allow the men to finish crossing and when they crumbled… Aragorn shuddered. The men still atop the blockade would fall, most likely to their deaths on the sharp, burning debris field that surround them, and the men left behind would lose their one chance to find safe paths through the flames. As it was the encroaching fire would reach them within minutes.

Then the shudder gave way to a grimly set jaw. It was time for the deliverer to fulfill his duty. Once again the cry of the horn of Rohan resounded in the town of Edbaning. Then he was galloping towards them once more, and he didn't allow Ulmafan to stop until she was right in their midst.

"Get back!" he cried to the men once he'd gotten their shocked attention. "That structure will collapse at any moment!"

The whispers of the throng gave way to shouts of 'Thorongil Ár' and other cries that Aragorn couldn't decipher. Then a young man stepped forward and Aragorn's eyes widened.

"This is the only way out!" the man shouted.

"Not if you bring it down on top of your heads!" Aragorn countered, shouting right back as it was the only way to be heard above the roar of the flames.

"If you have another solution I'd love to hear it!"

"Of course he does!" another soldier shouted, interrupting. "He's Thorongil! The hero of the Battle of the Broken Dam!"

This elicited a chorus of approving cheers.

"Yet there is no siege equipment here to help you this time," the first soldier negated. "Nor a band of orcs stupid enough to lend their aid!"

Aragorn had only been half paying attention to the debate, however. He'd been too preoccupied in studying one particularly weak-looking section of the former blockade…

"I say again, stand back," he directed in a level voice. "I have no need for ballistae here."

"What are you planning?" the interrupting soldier asked eagerly.

"I have a four-legged battering ram and I aim to punch a hole yonder," Aragorn answered him, pointing to the spot he'd chosen.

The heads of everyone who heard instantly spun around to try and see what Aragorn saw.

"You _are_ insane!" the first man called out. "A good horse could jump that, maybe, but to plow through it? I say nay, not even for a horse in full war-armor, and yours does not even have a saddle!"

Ulmafan snorted indignantly and shook her head, leading those who'd heard and seen to believe that the mare had actually understood their speech and had just been insulted by it.

"Just keep the men back!" Aragorn directed tersely. At this point the day's events had long since stripped all the honey from his tongue, and instead he put his faith in his status as herald that the men would obey his orders. "And follow me when I am through."

He didn't give them the chance to argue. Instantly Ulmafan took off, as though spurred on by his very thoughts. She barreled towards the weakest spot in the blockade seemingly heedless of the structure in her path, and the men balked as their new herald seemed intent on playing chicken with an immobile object. But then, just as it looked as though Aragorn truly _did_ intend to crash headlong into the blockade, Ulmafan jumped, and the hooves of her tucked forelegs caught the top of the debris pile. The rubble seemed to part in a wake around her as she leapt over the blockade, and her hind legs stretched out as she descended to the other side, plowing through what remained. Ulmafan stumbled when her front hooves hit the ground on the other side, and she dropped her head as she very nearly took a tumble. Aragorn had to hold on for dear life with his legs around her middle and his arms about her neck, but after a few rough paces the mare righted herself and trotted out of it. Then Aragorn sat up, turned in his seat, and stared back at the men through the hole he had indeed punched through the blockade.

The dip in the blockade where Ulmafan had jumped was barely chest high and gently sloping, and perhaps more importantly, it was wide enough for three men to scramble abreast across it.

"Are you coming?" he asked, comically arching an eyebrow in a deadpan imitation of Lord Elrond.

The men didn't need to be told twice. They suddenly flocked all at once to this passageway Ulmafan had carved, and very soon were scrambling over it in twos and threes. Aragorn paid attention to them long enough to see that they were indeed following him before he redirected his attention towards the south gate.

Or at least, he tried to.

For the first time, Aragorn found himself in the pit itself. Ulmafan hadn't stumbled because of her efforts to take down the blockade, but rather because she had landed on unstable terrain. Over the dizzying wave of nausea that slammed into him Aragorn realized he had been a fool to forget about the carnage that had raged here only a short while ago. Ulmafan's feet had to fight to find the ground. If Aragorn had been horrified to see the sky aflame earlier, then he would never be able to describe what he felt when he saw that the ground was burning too, and that it reeked of charred flesh.

Fortunately for them, the Rohirrim managed to ignore it as they hurried past him towards the breach in the south wall.

Once again determination overrode his body's weaknesses—or perhaps it was his sense of self-preservation. Either way, Aragorn shook himself out of it. He grabbed the reins and pulled Ulmafan around, hastily surveying the scene as he did so. It appeared as though most of the Rohirrim had already made it over the blockade and were making their way towards the hole in the wall where the gate had been. It was slow going though, through the wooden and human debris, but they doggedly pressed on. Aragorn forced himself to feel as though he had made a difference here.

Then he saw the man he spoke to earlier.

"Is this everyone?"

The man stopped and scanned the crowd for a moment before making his way towards where Aragorn sat atop Ulmafan.

"It is," he said, something indistinguishable shining in his eyes now that had been lacking before. Was it admiration? Respect? _Hope?_

"What of the Marshal?" Aragorn questioned, having never forgotten his underlying selfish reasons for his coming here.

"I have not seen him," the man confessed. "He had been fighting along the east wall, but that was some time ago. He may have gotten here ahead of us, or he may still be in there."

Aragorn grit his teeth. After entering from the west he had been forced to push east through the center of town and then make his way zigzagging southeast-southwest to reach this gate. As such he had seen the aftermath of what had raged in the east end. There had been nothing living in that direction.

Aragorn was about to question the soldier further when a resounding CRASH stole their attention before he got the chance to do so. His head snapped around and his eyes widened as he saw another band of men break over the ruins of the blockade as water crashes over a jetty in a storm.

"Run!" one of these newcomers cried out to Aragorn and his compatriot, who had been effectively caught staring. "The last stores of lamp oil have been lit! The whole city is coming down! RUN!"

The soldiers still lingering in the pit didn't need to be told twice. Wide-eyed and pale-faced through the soot they turned and fled as though the incoming Rohirrim were a band of pursuing orcs, including the man Aragorn had been talking to only moments ago.

"Wait!" Aragorn cried out. "Have you come from the east?" He pulled Ulmafan around so that they were facing into the throng that rushed passed them, yet no one heeded him (though it might have been possible that they didn't hear him, as echoing explosions could now be heard in the distance).

Determined to get an answer, Aragorn drove his heels into Ulmafan's side, causing the mare to lurch forward. He used the mare's momentum to propel his outstretched right hand into the chest of one of the oncoming soldiers. His fingers secured around the strapping to the soldier's breastplate and he yanked the man around, causing the soldier to spin in close to him with a panicked shriek. Gray spots danced before Aragorn's vision as his shoulder protested the sudden violent shearing that brought him practically nose to nose with the startled soldier.

"Have you come from the east wall?" Aragorn repeated his question.

"Aye, my lord herald," the soldier answered quickly, having easily seen the horn strapped at Aragorn's belt. "But the Marshal—"

"What of the Marshal?" Aragorn frantically interrupted.

"He ordered us to flee—those of us which can!"

"He did not follow?"

"Nay, he could not. The Dunlanders have his forces quartered in the east end—the price they paid for seeing that the flames found their way into the deepest store-cellars."

Aragorn's eyes widened. "You mean he's trapped?"

The man opened his mouth to respond.

"You knew he was quartered and you _left him there?_"

"On his orders, lord!" the soldier defended himself.

Aragorn grunted in derision. "Where are they?"

"My lord, there is no time!"

"_Where!_"

The soldier sighed, relenting. "Three blocks east of the central square."

"Where the sundial stands?"

The soldier nodded. "But you'll never reach them in time—the whole city is coming down!"

"Then I suggest you continue running!" Aragorn shouted, too harried to convey anything but dismissal in his tone as he kicked Ulmafan back into a gallop. The mare bounded forward and in three strides she leapt at the blockade again, this time sailing clean over a low-lying section. This time he paid no heed to the stomach-churning sense of weightlessness, and as Ulmafan lengthened her strides as she recovered from the jump Aragorn bent their course straight on, back towards the center of town.

If he had thought getting through the burning city once had been difficult enough, last time had been a walk in the park compared to now. The roads that had so staunchly withstood the punishing flames were now littered with burning debris. There were no buildings anymore, no discernable structures of any kind left standing. Instead there was a smoke-curtained maze of flame bending this way and that, burning low or towering above in hellacious infernos. Ulmafan leapt, and darted, and ducked, and dodged, and Aragorn nearly swooned from the immense heat of the sudden unnatural breezes that swept over him in the aftermath of every rumbling explosion. It seemed like an eternity before he reached the central square, and he very nearly laughed aloud to see the majestic sundial with its gyroscopes still standing.

That was of course until a nearby building collapsed, belching a cloud of smoke that fell over the dais like a shroud. When it at last retreated, the sundial was lying broken on the ground, surrounded by burning debris, next to a toppled dais. Aragorn bowed his head; the crowning symbol of Edbaning had fallen. Though it mattered little, he reasoned as he reined Ulmafan into sharp right turn and so now headed east, because the city had fallen long ago.

Aragorn had managed to travel barely a block before he found the first survivor of what had surely been Folca's doomed command. A soldier of Rohan, identifiable as such only by the armor he wore, was leaning heavily on the broken shaft of a Dunland glaive, using it as a makeshift crutch. He was hobbling westward, probably towards the closer west gate, without realizing that the gate was now blocked.

"Ai heremann licgan Riddermark!" Aragorn shouted, purposely using the Rohirric tongue to get the beleaguered man's attention.

The soldier looked up with confused, pain-filled eyes only to flinch as the gray mare came rushing up to him. Aragorn had thought to question him first about the whereabouts of his fellow soldiers, but one look at the man's badly burned legs—the only part of his exposed flesh that did not paint the soldier as a black-skinned Haradan, convinced him otherwise. Instead he reached down, again automatically with his right hand, and used Ulmafan's momentum to help him pull the man up. In one excruciatingly painful motion Aragorn slung the man in front of him while at the same time sliding back enough to create sufficient space for this new passenger.

The soldier grunted and moaned in pain but was soon able to take the pressure off of Aragorn's right shoulder by easing himself around until he was seated sidesaddle. The man offered a slurred string of Rohirric by way of a thank you—or at least that's what Aragorn assumed he said, as the white-hot poker that repeatedly stabbed his shoulder with each of Ulmafan's concussive footfalls kept him from paying close enough attention to decipher neither the slurring nor the language.

When at last the pain faded into the background Aragorn wrapped his essentially useless right arm around the semi-conscious soldier, allowing gravity alone to help him secure the man in place. Meanwhile his left hand managed to find its way from Ulmafan's mane to the discarded reins, and grabbing them, he pulled the mare back to a standstill. Ulmafan stood, panting heavily to recover herself, while Aragorn refused himself a moment to do likewise. Instead he shook the soldier slightly.

"No, no," Aragorn spoke into the man's ear. "You haven't yet earned your rest."

The man groaned and stirred, not quite awake but exactly unconscious.

"You must tell me where Marshal Folca is."

The man groaned again, obviously fighting to return from the grip of oblivion.

"Where is Marshal Folca?" Aragorn asked again, this time more sternly. Then, trying a slightly different tactic: "where were you fighting?"

The soldier looked up, and Aragorn could almost feel him trying to regain his bearings as his eyes fought to pierce the smoky haze that surrounded them. "Þǽrábútan…" the man mumbled as he managed to point a lazy hand forwards in a vaguely southeastern direction.

Aragorn urged Ulmafan back into a gallop before that pointing hand had a chance to fall.

It came to pass that the King's herald found what remained of the Third Marshal's forces in the garrison town of Edbaning roughly three blocks to the southeast of the once-great sundial; just as had he had hoped to find them. And just as he had feared, they were all fleeing westward.

"Stop!" Aragorn cried out as Ulmafan ran hard to bridge the gap between them. "The west gate is completely blocked—you cannot get out that way!"

The band of twenty or so Rohirrim came to a screeching halt as Aragorn reined Ulmafan in and halted right in their path. Many of the men gaped at the sight that greeted them, for these were Folca's men and they knew well of the dark-haired stranger from the north with the dappled-gray mare. Several sets of eyes alit with recognition, and even more with sudden surprise as they noted the herald's horn hanging from Aragorn's belt. Then suddenly one of them stepped forward.

"Lǽtan Béma átǽsan gástléas! Thorongil _what_ are you _doing here?_" the soldier asked as he strode angrily towards the man on horseback.

Aragorn broke into a wide grin despite the venom lacing the other man's words, for he knew the man well enough to realize this sudden anger was not truly heartfelt.

"Arlath, _mellonin!_"

Aragorn reached down awkwardly with his leaden left hand and the lieutenant reached his own hand up to meet it. It was an adequate if somewhat awkward handshake.

"I ask again, Thorongil, how—_why_—have you come to be here?"

"I rode with the King's éored to the defense of the Westfold," Aragorn answered seriously. "But the tale will have to wait. You cannot escape through the west gate. That is how I reentered the city and it fell shut behind me."

Arlath's eyes widened in surprise, surprise that held an unmasked glimmer of hope. "You've come through the west gate? Have you seen Folca then—did he send you to find us?"

Aragorn felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. "He's not with you?"

"We separated some time ago—he pushed north while I came east. We were to escape through the west gate when the enemy no longer opposed us."

"I saw many men regrouping in the fields outside the west gate ere I entered, but Folca was not among them. Nor did I see him at the south gate, from whence I've just come in search of him."

The naked worry in Arlath's eyes was quickly schooled away, replaced by a twinkle and an honest grin. "Charging to our rescue again, Thorongil? And again alone? I don't know whether his lordship should recommend you for another medal, or tie you to a post in Edoras to keep you safe where you belong!"

Despite the pain, and the exhaustion, and the worry, Aragorn actually found himself laughing a breathless, tension-releasing laugh.

"We can discuss my consequences later," he announced when he was through, growing serious again. "Right now we must head south."

Yet before Arlath could even formulate a reply, the shockwave from a faraway explosion shook the very ground beneath their feet. A scorching blast of acrid wind tore down the street as burning debris started to rain down all around them. Ulmafan reared in panic and Aragorn was hard-pressed to keep both himself and the injured soldier seated, but when she calmed his eyes scanned frantically for Arlath and he found the man pulling himself up from the ground.

"We must go!" he shouted to the lieutenant—truly, to any and all still lingering that would listen, but it was punctuated by yet another deafening roar and an earthshaking rumble, though this time miraculously Arlath stayed on his feet. Then after their skin was seared by yet another gasping breath of the city in her death throes all eyes turned in the direction of these explosions.

"Everything is collapsing!" Arlath shouted as he stared ahead in horror. "We are out of time!"

In the distance they could see buildings toppling over into their neighbors, pitching streams of ash and debris along the line and furthering the devastating domino effect. A melding wall of flame was rushing fast on a desert wind to greet them, heading towards them in a tidal wave.

It was coming from the south.

"Not if I can help it!" Aragorn shouted, not even pausing to notice the gamut of conflicting emotions his heart was enduring while his mind forced itself to focus, for even as he shouted he was already holding tighter to the wounded soldier with his pained right arm while urging Ulmafan into a sudden gallop again. The mare crossed the ten paces that separated them from Arlath before the lieutenant could blink, and before the man could protest Aragorn reached out with his left hand and grabbed him by the breastplate.

"Annún, Ulmafan!" he shouted to his mare, as once again it fell on her to guide their way. With a mighty effort—aided in no small part once more by Ulmafan's momentum—Aragorn pivoted in his seat so that held the injured soldier practically in his lap, which in turn enabled him to pull Arlath up beside them. He groaned aloud with the strain of it, focusing all his remaining strength on keeping his hold. In that moment he had to trust Ulmafan completely not to allow her passengers to fall, as he had not the energy to spare for the thought of maintaining balance.

Fortunately, trusting Ulmafan had never been a problem.

The mare strove forward through the debris field, dodging falling embers, leaping burning debris, narrowly escaping pitfalls. The constant rumblings of collapsing buildings rose in crescendo with her hoof-beats as Ulmafan fought to stay ahead of the chasing wall of flame.

Meanwhile the lieutenant had managed to swing his legs up to drape them across Ulmafan's hind quarters behind Aragorn's back. Hence he was reclined in an awkward position, his back pressed up against Aragorn's thigh and the burnt legs of the injured soldier—whose moans of painful protest were too soft to be heard above the din. The lieutenant had one hand wrapped tightly in Ulmafan's mane while the other maintained a death grip on the bottom of Aragorn's tunic. For what it was worth, Aragorn maintained as firm a grip as possible on the strapping of Arlath's breastplate with his weakening left hand.

"I thought you said the west gate was closed!" the lieutenant shouted up at him.

"We have no choice!" Aragorn shouted back, and it was the bitter truth. He only hoped that Ulmafan could manage another miracle.

"How do you get into these predicaments?" Arlath grumbled loud enough to be heard. It was mildly disconcerting to watch the flames scroll past upside-down, especially when there was no discernable difference between that and right-side up.

"Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that?" Aragorn came right back. "I'm not the one who gets himself trapped in hopeless situations."

"No, you're just the reckless Northman who will one day get himself killed for not staying where he belongs!"

Aragorn's answering laugh was stolen by the sudden lurching beneath him, and he gasped. The road ahead was completely gone—buried by a dense patchwork carpet of flames. Ulmafan had just run out of running room, but fortunately not out of jumping room. Aragorn squinted and grit his teeth as Ulmafan's leap forced him to strain with all his might to keep his hold on Arlath's breastplate.

"Thorongil!" he heard the lieutenant cry out, accompanied by the sound of tearing fabric.

"Hold on!" Aragorn directed as Ulmafan leapt again. This time Arlath was momentarily swallowed by a billow of smoke, and his soot-stained face was all the darker when Aragorn caught sight of it again.

This made his panicked eyes shine all the brighter.

"Thorongil, I'm slipping!"

"Hold on!" Aragorn shouted again, forcing his slackening grip to tighten around Arlath's breastplate as Ulmafan staggered once before leaping high above another patch of burning debris.

"I'm slipping!" the lieutenant repeated over the ominous sound of tearing fabric. Aragorn's tunic wasn't holding up to the strain of the man's weight.

"I've got you!" Aragorn informed him, forcing his uncooperative fingers to obey his commands.

What had once been the western wall now loomed large in front of them. Aragorn saw the path that Ulmafan would take. If she could reach the wall through the scattered chunks of burning debris they stood a chance to jump safely through a hole that had formed when the ramparts had collapsed down into the wall itself, but it would not be easy.

"Grab my arm!" Aragorn directed as his tunic tore again.

Arlath tried to shake his head. "I can't!"

"You must! Quickly before—"

He didn't get to finish his thought as in that moment Ulmafan was forced to dodge a tumbling cascade of burning timber. She lurched harshly to the left and then righted her course again, dipping her shoulders fully into the turns to cut them closer. The protesting groans of the injured soldier were barely discerned above the cackle of the flames until:

"Thorongil!" A cry that couldn't mask the harsh tearing sounds of cloth being ripped asunder.

"Arlath!" Aragorn forced his hand to keep its white-knuckled grip, even as Arlath's fist waved haplessly through the air, still clutching a piece of his tunic.

"Thorongil, I—"

But once again Ulmafan's actions severed their speech. The mare leapt again, this time seemingly diving straight through a geyser of flame. Aragorn's whole body shook with the strain of keeping his fist closed.

A sudden lurching and the mare landed, only to jump again. The hole in the west wall was before them at last. Aragorn clenched his fist, holding fast to his friend's breastplate, and prepared for the final test.

"Hold on!" he shouted as he felt them rise into the wall of flame, their roar and cackle ringing down to a deafening echo in his ears.

"Thorongil!" his friend's shout reached him, or perhaps he imagined it, but even still he answered.

"Arlath!" he cried again, straining his broken body past its limits. In that moment his vision erupted into a haze of swirling stars as he swooned from the queasy weightlessness in that punishing heat. Tongues of flame occasionally found their mark, and a kaleidoscope of pain cascaded across his body even as his entire frame rocked from the concussion of Ulmafan's landing.

One final leap and it was over. The world came crashing down around him, slamming into his body with concurrent waves of dizziness and pain. The sudden cool of the untainted air shocked his system and he felt his eyes roll back in his head, but the white-hot pain in his shoulder prevented him from passing out completely. Instead the rhythm of Ulmafan's thundering hooves jarred him back to reality again, and he saw that they were finally free of the burning city. The mare was running fast over the empty plains now, bound for the collection of Rohirrim regrouping beneath the banners of Westfold.

Freca and Marshal Irengrim hurried towards the approaching mare, shocked beyond words that Thorongil had survived. When at last they met again, Aragorn's eyes were glazed over, haunted slips of silver glass in his pale and sooty face. He didn't seem to notice as the injured soldier was pried from the dead weight of his right hand, for all that remained of his conscious thought was focused on his _left_, as it dangled useless and empty at his side…

* * *

There were considerably more soldiers grouped beneath the banners here than when Aragorn had left, with more and more stumbling in every minute. Those who'd come in under their own power were supporting the injured, or carrying them, or dragging them. The air reeked, sweat and the acrid aftertaste of burnt… things… lingering in a pervasive cloud. Everywhere men were bent over wounded bodies, or regrouping with their friends and loved ones, or doubled over with grief. Run-on strings of Rohirric bathed the camp, words and sentences bleeding together into a gentle cacophony occasionally diluted by a strand or two in the Common Tongue. The entire camp was the portrait of subdued chaos beneath the late-day sun. 

"May we, sir?"

Aragorn was startled out of his fog by two soldiers, who'd approached him from either side.

"May you…?" his voice trailed off, confusion plainly showing on his face.

One of the men—the one he was currently looking at, graced him with a weary look. "Have your horse, sir," that man answered, gesturing towards Ulmafan, who still stood dubiously silent beneath her master.

"For the wounded," the other man followed, and somehow the right tumblers clicked in Aragorn's mind. He nodded absently.

Of course, dismounting was another matter. With two useless arms—and he was oh so certain that they were, as the right one still throbbed intermittently (or steadily, he'd realize, once he regained more spatial awareness), and the left…

With agonizing slowness he leaned forward, and forced his right hand up through half-acknowledged pain to grab hold of Ulmafan's mane, part way up her neck. Then he allowed his body to relax, and by design he started falling gently to his right side. With his last ounce of strength he kicked his left leg over, and when his tenuous hold on horsehair gave way he already had his feet squarely beneath him—

—Which of course didn't mean a damn thing without the strength to support those limbs. He crashed down, hard, to his knees, both hands dangling like useless anachronisms open-palmed beside his thighs. One flared up in pain. The other… he couldn't feel the other at all.

And never wanted to again.

He was dimly aware of the two soldiers leading Ulmafan away, and by the lack of protesting he knew that she was at least moderately accepting of her new duty. That left him alone, sitting on his heels on the side of a little hill, the hustle and bustle of the camp still very active all around him. If he'd had the strength, he would have stood to offer his hand with the wounded, would have been able to offer his hands to the wounded, would have had hands to offer. Yet he had none. He had neither. He had nothing.

"Thorongil!"

Aragorn flinched, his friend's frantic shouts still ringing in his ears.

"_Thorongil!"_

"_Hold on!"_

_"I'm slipping!"_

_"I've got you!"_

And he did. He _did_ have him. He felt his muscles and tendons straining, felt the leather melding into the grooves of his hand, felt his thumb crushing his fingers together.

"_Grab my arm!"_

"_I can't!"_

"_You must!"_

He'd been so confident that he could hold on—that if Arlath had just managed to grab a hold of his shirtsleeve all would have been well. But even still, his own hands should have been enough. His hands that tore Bretta's baby from her dying womb, that brought down the dam in the ravine, that slew orc and goblin and man alike, that coaxed even some of the Firstborn back from the brink of departure for Mandos, his _strong, skilled hands_…

"_Thorongil!" _

"_Arlath!" _

"_Thorongil, I—"_

—Let go! Oh, by Varda's stars, I had him! I _had him!_ By Manwë's breath—

_"Hold on!"_

_"Thorongil!"_

_"Arlath!"_

Only once he had screamed the name. At the end, just as they were free of the burning city, in the space that was barely fit to hold a breath—

_ARLATH!_ his mind had screamed, deafeningly loud, loud enough to drown out the cacophonous silence that had enveloped him.

**_ARLATH!_ ** The word burned into his brain because his tongue would not utter it, would not tolerate it, as he would not tolerate his left hand and so it rested idly, muted by an entirely different pain. In the ringing echoes of his mind, he could still hear his friend's panicked cries.

_"Thorongil!"_

Aragorn winced, his shoulders heaving once.

_"Thorongil!_"

His head bowed low, his hands still facing palm-out at the ends of useless arms. Without the strength left to sob, he might have seemed asleep to some, or praying.

"Thorongil!"

Then suddenly his heart relented, and he recognized the voice at last. It _had _been echoing loudly, but that's because its speaker was shouting. Aragorn's head jerked up at the sound of that voice, for it was a voice he had never hoped to hear speak his name again.

"Thorongil!"

"… Folca…"

And Aragorn was on his feet, even before he was aware of making any conscious efforts to stand; and just in time too, for in that moment Folca reached him, and he felt arms that he had thought now lain in equal uselessness as his own suddenly reach out and envelope him in a crushing embrace. Hurried Rohirric ghosted into his ear un-translated, and his feet momentarily left the ground before Folca was through with him, but at last the Marshal backed off well enough to get a good look at the man standing before him.

Aragorn had been unaware that his hands had reached up to return the embrace until he saw them lingering at the man's elbows, and then they both dropped like marionettes with severed strings.

"I have heard some strange tales tonight," Folca was saying. "And if I didn't know you personally I wouldn't have believed them—King's herald indeed!"

"I thought you dead…" Aragorn murmured, his eyes blinking and striving to focus as though trying by themselves to ascertain whether or not the image in front of them was real.

Folca laughed, a sound soothing to the soul. "I escaped through the south gate not long after you left it—just ahead of the great collapse. We came from the east."

Aragorn vaguely nodded. "I saw your house collapse," he said, jumbled thoughts tumbling around, zeroing in on the word 'collapse,' spewing for the first thing they settled on.

Folca looked stricken, as though too many emotions surged forth suddenly, not the least being growing concern for the man standing before him. He reached out a hand, only to be shocked and alarmed when Aragorn shrunk away, wincing.

"Your shoulder!"

Aragorn turned his head slightly, as though inspecting his right shoulder for the first time. When he turned back, his eyes were glazed again, those haunted slips of silver glass that Folca had seen in men before, in the hazy aftermath of battle, when they were only half-aware of themselves, their surroundings, their missing limbs...

"Doesn't matter," Aragorn offered lamely, a shrug in his voice if not affected by his body.

"Did you dislocate it?" Folca ignored Aragorn's weak protests as he stepped closer, feeling the area again with gentle fingers. "Where else are you injured?" he asked, using that hand to force Aragorn to look him in the eye. The shoulder had been dislocated and then popped back into place, but that alone wouldn't account for the clammy coldness he felt burning in the man's skin, nor for the sweat that beaded on his brow. He had seen shock enough times to recognize its onset. "Thorongil?" His tone grew sharper for the urgency.

Aragorn shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he all but slurred, repeating himself. Then, for the first time since leaving the burning city behind, he willed his left hand to move. In an achingly slow motion it came up from his bending elbow, palm skyward, finger's limply curled. Aragorn's gaze was fixed on it as though it was moving by willpower alone—fixed on it like it was a baby spider, both loathsome and fascinating.

Gently, instinctively, Folca reached out and grasped that hand, and he stifled a gasp at how cold the fingers felt. When the answer came, it wasn't at all what he had been expecting.

"I held him," Aragorn said, speaking to their joined hands but seeing a different pair. "Up 'til the end. We should have made it."

"You what?" Folca was confused, naturally. "Who should have made it?"

"Him," Aragorn readily supplied. "He should have. Not me. I couldn't hold him. I… let go."

Aragorn's arm slackened. Folca tightened his grip on that hand, securing them together.

"What are you talking about?" Folca questioned, both gentle and urgent. He knew that at this point the other man was barely aware of him. "What do you mean, let go?"

"Arlath," said Aragorn. "He is dead." He looked up at last with bright, clear eyes. "I let him die."

And that was all the explanation Folca was going to get, because in the next moment those eyes rolled back in Aragorn's head as his body crumpled.

* * *

Pain. 

It had been his constant companion. Or at least, he remembered it that way. He didn't really feel it now, though he was at a loss as to why that had changed. Actually, he didn't really feel much of _anything_ right now, and if he'd had more presence of mind he would have wondered if his ada had drugged his tea again.

Of course, if he had more presence of mind, he wouldn't have been thinking about his ada's tea at all.

In all honesty though, he wasn't really sure what he was thinking. Well, that's not quite right. He wasn't really sure that he _was_ thinking—but then, wouldn't that thought disprove the point? It was all so confusing.

It didn't used to be. He was certain he remembered a time when he _could _think about such things as his ada's bitter tea, and the comforting companion of pain. Or was that the other way around? He didn't know. Or at least, he couldn't remember.

It was always easier when he didn't remember.

And then he'd stop, and his eyes would focus, and he'd see the plains of Rohan stretched out before his weary feet, and the pain would return.

And then he would remember everything.

It had been past sunset when Folca woke him, though the moon was still low in the sky. The Marshal had been loath to do it—even though he couldn't quite hide his relief that Thorongil actually _woke up_, but the host was to be moving soon. They were making for the refuge of Helm's Deep, fifteen leagues to the southeast. Litters had been fashioned for the worst of the wounded while those who might survive it were seated atop what few horses now remained, usually in pairs unless the horse was injured, too. The rest, like Aragorn, were forced to walk.

Fifteen long, punishing leagues.

The beginning hadn't been so bad—his nonconsensual nap had been slightly rejuvenating. At least, it gave his body a chance to catch up with itself and allow each new pain to register, and that pain had focused his thoughts somewhat. At least in the beginning, and at least enough for him to understand what Folca was trying to tell him. That he could still walk was another welcomed discovery (because the process of standing had been touch-and-go there at first), because if not, Folca would have had him strapped to a litter.

Yes, s_trapped_.

That had been the first time he'd thought about Lord Elrond's tea.

But that was moot, because he could walk, and he knew his name (or…), and how many fingers Folca was holding up, and that was enough for the Marshal to relent. Aragorn had been allowed to walk, but not before a sling was fashioned for his right arm, out of strips of his own tunic no less.

Folca had been by his side in the beginning, but the Marshal was in charge of this ragtag host and so was needed elsewhere. A lot of elsewheres, actually. He was often at the head of the column with Freca and the standard-barer, or he was in the rear with whomever he had posted there, or he was anywhere in between, amidst his men and seeing to the wounded, though he stopped by to check on Aragorn at every available opportunity.

As the miles stretched on, those opportunities became less and less. Aragorn wondered if someone had finally made the Marshal aware of his lieutenant's fate, because if that was true he really couldn't blame Folca for avoiding him. Or it could be that the miles were standing still, and time itself was stretching. That could be why the mountains in the distance never seemed to get any closer, or why the Gil-Estel seemed brightly frozen in its trek cross the sky.

In the beginning, the constant pain in his right shoulder kept him lucid, but the gradually increasing headache was threatening to negate that. It took him a while to remember that he'd hit it when he'd first woken up in Edbaning after the blockade had collapsed. It had then taken him a while _longer_ to realize that the reason he 'woke up' in Edbaning was because he had been knocked unconscious before that. At first he didn't think he had a concussion as he wasn't dizzy or nauseous, yet as the journey stretched on with each step seemingly bringing them no closer to their destination, he began to wonder if he'd been foolishly optimistic in that assessment.

It certainly wouldn't have been the first time.

Though admittedly the nausea was helped a great deal by the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, and he had to wonder if he'd actually bitten his tongue at some point. Or it could be that the gash along the side of his face was bleeding again; that forgotten hindrance certainly wasn't helping the headache, either. In fact, it had gotten worse as he'd walked, to the point where the nausea no longer needed outside help.

As the miles stretched into leagues and the open plains turned unnoticed into rocky foothills, Aragorn's toes began to catch the loose stones while the gently increasing uphill climb turned his legs to jelly. It was only a matter of time before he stumbled, and what that remained of his rational mind constantly warned him that if that happened, he might not be able to get back up again.

His heart would have been just fine with that.

Yet on and on he walked, league after grueling league, focusing solely on placing one foot in front of the other. It kept him from focusing on anything else, even after exhaustion had driven his senses past the point of numbness. It kept him from collapsing, and so kept his heart from winning. It was _Estel's_ life that was fraught with selfish choices, not Thorongil's. Thorongil would not take the easy way out, and so he kept going, past the point where his boots barely left the ground as he shuffled his steps forward; past the point of pain and beyond the reach of thought, or memory.

At least until he'd look up from his dragging feet again to see the plains of Rohan giving way to the rocky beginnings of the White Mountains. Then it would all come rushing back, pain included. Or at least the memory of pain. Or so he thought. Or so he thought he thought, as he wasn't always sure that he was thinking.

It was always safer when he wasn't thinking, and his battered and exhausted body was more than willing to prevent him from doing so. It was the tradeoff for his heart that kept him on his feet.

Aragorn was so entwined in his own isolated non-world that he didn't realize that the host had finally reached the jutting feet of the mountains. It was the cries of the men that finally roused him, and when he looked up he saw that many of them were if not running than surely hurrying up this last hill that they were climbing. His suspicions were confirmed when he too reached the crest; those rocky foothills had been Helm's Dike, and the host had just crossed it. There, looking out across the valley, Aragorn saw towering mountains under starlight. Then suddenly a wisp of cloud blew away from the moon and a wash of silver light fell upon the valley. There, standing in defiance of the midnight shadows a massive stone wall seemed to rise out of the bones of the earth. Behind it, swathed partially in smoke from unseen fires drifting lazily on the gentle breeze, Aragorn first beheld the immense fortress that the elves call Aglarond after the fashion of Gondor, known to the Rohirrim as the Hornburg. They had reached Helm's Deep at last.

"What do you think, Thorongil?" Folca had approached unnoticed and now stood beside him, watching his men file down to the base of the wall and disappear. How they were entreating entry Aragorn couldn't tell through the darkness.

"The sketches in the library do not do it proper justice," Aragorn appraised, traces of awe still lingering in his voice.

Folca nodded, though his expression was uncharacteristically grim. "You'll learn to hate it," he said with some definitiveness. "One bad winter's garrison and you'll never want to see the Deeping Wall again. But come, we must get inside. The men are already ahead of us, and I am anxious for news of the King."

This reminder of Thengel sobered Aragorn and he nodded grimly. He too was anxious to hear how the King was faring, and captain Fengel whom he'd almost forgotten about until now.

"We should get you checked over, too," Folca added as they began to make their way down the last hill of Helm's Dike.

Aragorn grimaced but didn't comment. He was too busy focusing on not losing his footing on the steep descent.

* * *

However impressive the fortress might have been from the outside, behind the fabled Deeping Wall the Hornburg was just like any other fortified garrison. Now, in the aftermath of war, it was in utter chaos. Soldiers were rushing too and fro, some having come from the caves to greet the inflow of new arrivals (or more specifically, the new wounded), while others who had just arrived were trying to find some sense of order. 

The wounded of course took precedence, and there were more of them than the fair few assigned to triage. Healers were already making hasty rounds, expediently directing the worst cases back towards the caves. Litters were converted into stretchers, and anyone standing with hands to lend was commandeered to carry them. Some of the walking wounded already knew where to go; others didn't and were reaching for anyone and everyone in sight asking for directions, or for news of those who had arrived ahead of them, or news of any refugees that had fled the ruined towns.

Freca had been honest when he had said that he'd led the rest of his garrison to Edbaning. All that apparently remained in the Deep were the healers and those previously wounded because there was no one to tend to the arriving horses. The tired, agitated, often wounded horses were stripped of their injured cargo and left for groomsmen who would not be coming. Some of those still on their feet tried to step up to the task only to be recruited into carrying litters or stopped by hasty questions. In fact, so many questions, answers, and orders were shouted in Rohirric that Aragorn could not translate it all. He turned to Folca, intending to ask him to make sense of the din, only to discover that he'd become separated from the Marshal in the sea of confusion.

Suddenly a loud crash off to his right had Aragorn's head snapping around to discern its cause; a panicked horse had kicked over a barrel, spilling rainwater into the dusty lane. Those in the immediate area were shouting above the resonant din in fear and indignation on behalf of a wounded soldier as the water turned the dust to mud around one of the litters. Aragorn snorted a bitter laugh; if those healers didn't know how to work in mud they had no business leaving the city hospital. There was nothing comfortable about field triage.

Then Aragorn realized that the offending horse had been forgotten just as quickly in all the commotion. It had backed itself into a corner now and was rearing slightly onto its hind legs, stomping both front hooves down onto the cobbled pavement. While he could not fault the Rohirrim for choosing their wounded over their horses, even one of Elven breeding would have been hard-pressed to remain calm in the chaos that was the Hornburg now, and a panicked horse could very easily present a danger. Since no one else seemed to notice or care at the moment, Aragorn took it upon himself to see to the animal.

"Man le trasta, mellonin?" he asked in low tones as he slowly approached the rearing horse. "Hi sange egla le?" The Gray Tongue seemed to reach the panicked animal. It ceased rearing up, but it kept up the foot-stomping tossed its head, whinnying loudly for good measure. "Hin ú-marin n-hi." Aragorn was close enough now to judge the horse to be a stallion, and a young one at that.

"Daro a tiro bar, mellonin," he continued, and the stallion calmed even further. Aragorn was close enough now to reach out and touch the animal, but the stab of pain in his right shoulder prevented him from taking that arm from its sling. "Hi na lonn si," he murmured, practically into the stallion's ear. Then slowly, hesitantly, he reached up with his left hand and ran dead fingertips down the strapping of a forgotten bridle. The leather was warm and damp from sweat and supple beneath his touch.

Aragorn surprised himself with his relief at being able to feel it. Then his fingers slipped beneath the strap and clenched into a fist seemingly of their own volition, and the memories assaulted him anew. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to release the strap, but that treacherous left hand would not obey his command. He bowed his head so that his brow was pressed into the stallion's mane, his eyes falling shut as he did so.

"Why, ada?" he moaned into the stallion's neck, relapsing into Estel again, the lost and frightened child that he once had been.

"Thorongil?"

Aragorn pulled himself away from the stallion when he heard his name. He turned about, searching for the source of the oddly familiar voice. When at last he sighted who'd hailed him his eyes widened slightly in surprise, even as he saw the man—a healer—darting towards him.

"Eolad…" Aragorn breathed, shocked to see his friend here in the Hornburg.

"Thorongil!" the man exclaimed as he reached him, grinning a bit too broadly to befit a healer in the aftermath of war.

"Eolad… what are you doing here?"

"Marshal Folca petitioned the Guild for additional healers to be stationed here, just before the war broke out. My days have long of late, though in truth I have been here less than a fortnight."

Aragorn nodded hastily, both in acceptance and hasty dismissal. "How fares the King?"

"His Majesty is resting," Eolad informed his worried friend, though his eyes were dark. "He suffered greatly during the ride and is battling a fever, though more than that I could not tell you—he has been under private care. We have been told though that his chances will increase considerably should he survive the night."

Aragorn's stricken face paled considerably. "I… a litter would have been gentler, but I judged the time too great."

"Deorwine's haste may have save King Thengel's life," Eolad said plainly.

Aragorn shook his head. "Or it may have sealed his fate, and on my orders."

"Fate is never sealed," Eolad countered. "You taught me that."

Aragorn flinched at this reminder of the Midwinter War, once again feeling the numbing cold in his left hand. "And Captain Fengel?" he asked, shamefully desiring only a change of topic.

"They expect the Captain to pull through," Eolad informed him, smiling once again. "If Dúnhere's tale is to be believed then you will take credit for saving his life."

"The stitches held?" Aragorn asked, his healer's mind offering momentary salvation from his emotions.

Eolad nodded. "They did. The Master Healer is using a poultice from that herb of yours to stave off infection. If that works, the Captain should heal completely."

"I did not know it grew nearby. I must ride nigh onto Gondor to find it."

"There is not much that we have found, and all of it in vales of the Deeping Stream outside the fortress."

"Then we have been strangely blessed. Is there enough to treat the wounded here?"

"Only for the most serious of injuries," Eolad negated, "though many have recently arrived whom I would deem in need of it. The infirmary may already be stretched thin."

"There are other ways to use the athelas plant than in a poultice," said Aragorn. "Show me to the infirmary and I will help you."

"Wait, Thorongil," Eolad put a restraining hand on Aragorn's left shoulder. "You look as though you should not be standing, let alone tending to the wounded. Indeed I _will_ show you to the infirmary, but to a bed therein."

Aragorn growled lowly in annoyance. "'Tis merely a separated shoulder. I can still be of some use to you."

"That is well," said Eolad with an ironic smile. "But in truth I was more worried about the bruising on your chest, and about your head wound."

Aragorn glanced down in surprise. Sure enough there was a garish purple stripe cutting diagonally across his chest. Aragorn hadn't even noticed it before, but now with his tunic in tatters (and most of it forming the sling on his right arm) it was plainly visible. It took him a good twenty seconds of dumbstruck staring before he remembered the rope breaking his fall from Ulmafan's back after she had saved him from the wall.

It was that particular remembrance that awakened the pain of the injury, and Aragorn winced before he could stop himself.

"…And perhaps a few bruised ribs," he murmured absently as he abandoned the study of his chest at last.

"You are strong, Thorongil," Eolad hedged. "Strong and stubborn, but even now I can see how your eyes do not react as they should. You should be resting under care."

"The headache is not so bad," Aragorn assured, though he sounded more petulant than convincing. "And if I could walk here all the way from Edbaning I think I can survive on my feet a while longer."

"Walking is simple, Thorongil. You are concussed; your mind would not be on the tasks at hand."

Aragorn bowed his head, not in resignation but preparation. When he looked up again the walls he had constructed around his heart had slipped a little. His eyes may have been glazed, but they were haunted nonetheless.

"Please, Eolad," he all but begged. "I do not think I could bear it if my mind were anywhere else."

Not even the Woodland King would have stood immune to the thinly veiled plea in Aragorn's voice. Eolad sighed partially in acquiescence, partially in defeat.

"You are to remain within three steps of me at all times," he directed. "And you won't be allowed to so much as relieve yourself without aid until I have seen to your chest and bandaged that head wound."

Aragorn had no choice but to accept.

* * *

Aragorn had been right in his assessment that his ribs were only bruised. Eolad had torn someone's cloak to ribbons in order to bind them. His chest was stiff and sore, as was his back, but he had to admit that he felt better with the extra support of the binding. 

The head wound had looked more impressive than it truly was. Of course, with the entire side of his face caked in dried blood and dirt it was easy to be fooled. Apparently his face had been scrapped up—a completely separate wound from the gash in his temple, and one he didn't remember receiving. It could have happened when the blockade collapsed, or when he stumbled along the rampart, or at any time before or after either event. Now with a clean bandage wrapped around his head and his face scrubbed clean with an ointment applied to the scrapes to stave off infection, Aragorn did not look quite the sickly sight that he had presented in the courtyard. Eolad had even refashioned the sling for his right arm after first checking the set of his shoulder.

Finally deemed presentable again, Aragorn had followed Eolad out of the small antechamber (one of the many armories) they had absconded for the tending of Thorongil's wounds and back into the Great Hall, which had become a makeshift hospital. The wounded were arranged in rows, healers flitting like bumblebees to and fro about the litters and palates.

The hall was immense, roughly the same size as Medusheld, but already there was no more space available. The wounded were now being carried past them, through the hall and back towards the caves. No doubt every antechamber and store room was being put to use right now. The Master Healer tried to ensure that the hall was reserved for only the most grievous of injuries, but with only modest success. Just when it appeared that the worst had already arrived, a new stretcher would be carried in, laden with someone requiring immediate attention.

There were eight men under the Master's command including Eolad, who as it turned out had been promoted after the Mindwinter War, and there were six apprentices to split between them. When Aragorn joined them that made for a grand total of sixteen healers, but the wounded numbered in the hundreds.

Aragorn ordered the rest of the athelas to be placed in the boiling vats so that each new bandage could be treated in the healing solution. If still slightly damp when used to bind a wound they would serve better than an untreated bandage, and the supply would last far longer. In addition, the vapors rising from the vats would have everyone breathing easier; it would help the wounded to relax and keep the healers' minds clear and focused. The Master Healer remembered Thorongil from the Midwinter War and felt absolutely no offense in the man taking charge of the distribution of the herb.

Once the herbs were redistributed, Aragorn directed his attention towards wounded. However, Eolad was better than his word. He appointed Thorongil to be his personal assistant, ensuring that they were always within easy steps of each other for he did not quite trust Thorongil's word that the man felt as well as he proclaimed. Even still, whatever assistance his fellow healer could offer would be invaluable, especially in this dire situation, and that outweighed Eolad's predisposition to confine the other man to a cot until further notice.

Unfortunately, with his right arm immobilized Aragorn's tactile uses were limited. The grip and dexterity of his remaining hand still left quite a lot to be desired, though whether that was more from exhaustion or from exacerbation of the old injury he wasn't really up to contemplating. Thus Aragorn was limited to simple tasks that he could perform one-handed, things like passing instruments or fetching bandages, monitoring pulses and strength of breath, or even cleansing wounds and holding limbs immobile.

While Eolad greatly valued this extra help, he appreciated Thorongil's counsel even more. To the untrained eye it appeared as though Thorongil was assisting Eolad, yet any who knew what to look for would have been easily able to spot how very much the exact opposite was true. Together they operated as a single entity, with Eolad's hands acting on Aragorn's command. Together they saved many lives.

Hour after hour they labored together in the great hall. Aragorn cleansed countless wounds and swabbed the rivers of blood away; he immobilized countless limbs and secured countless bandages in place; he passed countless instruments back and forth and repositioned countless candles so that they could see what they were doing.

There were so many torches and candles in the hall that it lit the night brighter than the dawn. Unless one actually looked towards a window it was impossible to guess the hour; and the healers and those appointed to assist them did not bother wasting time glancing away from their work. Thus time stopped being counted by the hourglass and instead ticked by on the color of the bandages. When white ran out they knew there was no more standard bandage linen, and when yellow ran out they knew they'd used up every last scrap of bedding in the garrison. The reds had been the saddle blankets and the browns the men's winter cloaks. Finally they had switched to green, and by the texture Aragorn could not guess what the strips of cloth had been. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw an apprentice shredding one of the emblemized flags, and he wished that he hadn't wondered.

Aragorn never thought that anything could have been worse than the half-frozen crimson mud of the field hospital. Now he could only wish that he'd been right. The floor of the great hall did not have drainage and soon the stones were slick with blood. Aragorn's boots slipped more than once, and several times he would have crashed to the floor if it weren't for a surreptitious hand upon his shoulder or belt. When one of the apprentices wasn't so lucky the Master ordered all the healers to kick off their boots. Eolad's hands were buried wrist-deep in some poor soldier's insides, and with only one good arm and fingers no longer nimble enough to manage the laces, Aragorn had no choice but to grab a knife. He did not have time for precision and so the boots had been removed in less than a minute, though he would never be able to wear them again. His stockinged feet garnered better traction on the slippery stone floor, but he had to force himself not to look down each time his toes kicked into something less than solid.

Yet even then, the end was far from sight. When the vast multitude of crimson puddles stretched into one long swath the Rohirrim finally spared a thought to mop it up. The stables had been raided for straw, and a carpet had been laid out piecemeal depending on where the need was greater. Soon enough the entire floor was covered.

Soon after, all the straw was soaked. As Aragorn shuffled his feet through a sea of gangly strands he noticed more and more how the crimson outweighed the gold. His exhausted mind saw no difference between the floor beneath his feet and the blood-matted hair beneath his hand as he bound a gash in one blond soldier's forehead, and his stomach lurched every time he happened to glance down. As he tasted bile in the back of his throat he realized that he would have given anything to be back in that field hospital, with two good hands and boots that did not falter.

Eventually though all the serious wounds were treated. He and Eolad separated then, as one good hand was all he needed to swab ointment over gashes that did not require stitching, or to secure a bandage with an injured man's aid. Those of the walking wounded that did not know Thorongil had by now at least heard of his reputation, for word had spread of how he had saved King Thengel's life first in Strathcomb and then at Edbaning. These men often spoke of what they'd heard, either offering platitudes or asking questions, and Aragorn despaired to be the focus of such attention. After all that had happened in Edbaning and afterwards, he was shamed to realize that he had nearly forgotten the battle in Strathcomb. His home had burned to the ground, and Folca's family—_his own family_—had most likely perished with it. As he finished seeing to the very last of the wounded he could not decide which pain should have been greater in his heart, and the mantle of shame and guilt settled easily about him like an old, familiar cloak.

"We are finished, Thorongil," he heard Eolad announce from behind him. The healer's approach fell softly in the sodden straw and Aragorn was too distracted to have heard it. He tensed at Eolad's words, having been momentarily startled, but he lacked the strength to show any further outward signs of having been caught off guard. Instead he turned tiredly around, the basket he had been carrying to collect the discarded surgical tools hanging limply from his dead fingers.

"Leave that," Eolad added, seeing the tenuous grip Aragorn had on the basket. He met no resistance in relieving him of it, and then he gently set it aside. "It will be taken care of in due time, you need not concern yourself with such tasks now."

"They should be cleaned…" Aragorn protested weakly, and Eolad noted the glazed look that had settled in the man's eyes. It seemed to the healer that finally, after everything Thorongil had endured, his body was starting to give in. Now that life and death no longer hung in the balance of his actions, his mind was losing the fight against exhaustion and the pain he had doubtlessly been ignoring.

"And they will be," Eolad assured, one hand already snaking its way to find a grip across Aragorn's shoulders. "But not tonight, and not by you." Slowly and ever-mindful of the dislocation, the healer began to lead Aragorn through the hall towards the caves. He felt a slight fever in the other's skin and he made note to check the man's wounds again once he found a place for him to rest. Hopefully it was brought on by exhaustion and would dissipate on its own by morning.

They had made it almost to the exit to the caves when the Marshal suddenly rounded the corner and appeared in their path.

"Here you are!" Folca exclaimed, smiling no less brightly for his own weariness. "I have been looking for you in the caves—I thought you would be resting by now."

"We're on our way," Eolad answered for the both of them. "If there are any beds left for us."

"Perhaps not beds," the Marshal answered, "but there are pallets in the caves. Hilde made doubly sure that the healers were not forgotten."

"Hilde…" Aragorn breathed, eyes widening as he struggled to wrap his mind around the words that he just heard.

"That is well," Eolad replied as the conversation continued on. "We are most grateful for her thoughtfulness."

"And you may thank her personally. She has just come down from the Keep, where the King is resting comfortably—but that reminds me! I was sent to tell you, Thorongil, that his Majesty's fever has broken. My wife tells me that he was awake and coherent for several minutes this afternoon, and that he asked for you."

Aragorn felt the world around him tilt, and if it weren't for the supporting hand Eoland had left across his shoulders he surely would have collapsed.

"Your wife has been sitting with the King?" he asked, speaking the first thoughts that unscrambled themselves from his reeling mind.

Folca nodded, apparently oblivious to Aragorn's distress. "He and Captain Fengel are bedded down in the high chamber of the keep. Hilde left Lindewyn in charge, seeing as you taught her a fair amount of the healing arts and we could spare no healer to stay behind, but she checked on them often as she did not want my sister to spend much time on the winding stairs. A Healer of the Guild is with them now, leaving the women to seek their own beds at last."

Aragorn closed his eyes, the intensity of his relief washing over him in crashing waves. If he weren't so tired he might have laughed for the sudden heady giddiness he felt.

"They have earned it," he heard Eolad declare, though in that moment it seemed that the healer's voice came from far away. "They did not have an easy task in shepherding the refugees from Strathcomb, and when they learned that you ordered Edbaning to evacuate everyone feared the worst."

Aragorn felt realization flood through him. Those who had stayed behind in Strathcomb had chosen to remain. The women and children remained safe—the women and children that he cared for were alive and well. When he opened his eyes he beamed a drunken grin.

"Gil!" A sudden shriek pierced the moment, and all eyes turned to see Eomund come scurrying through the entryway at a toddling run. He made a beeline straight for Aragorn and secured two chubby arms about his leg. Still reeling from his earlier surprises, Aragorn didn't know how to react, and he stood gaping down at the three-year-old as laughter erupted around them.

After a moment Folca rescued him by prying his son's hands away. Still laughing, he picked Eomund up and secured him against his hip.

"And what are you doing out of bed?" he asked his son mock-sternly.

"Wanting desperately to kiss his father goodnight," came a new voice from the doorway. All eyes turned to see Hilde enter the hall, a slumbering infant Bretta in her arms. "And to see if Lindewyn was right that you had a hole in your head," she added as she fixed an appraising glare on Aragorn, taking in the sling and bandages with a maternal eye.

Aragorn felt a blush creep into his cheeks and he turned his gaze away.

"He does!" Eomund squealed, pointing desperately to the bandage around Aragorn's forehead. "Just like Aunty Lindy said!"

Eomund's next words were a torrent of broken Rohirric that Aragorn did not have the mental capacity to translate. Instead of trying, he reached out with his left hand and brushed soft blond curls out of the boy's eyes. Eomund giggled when the strands tickled the flesh behind his ear. Aragorn's hand remained cupped around the back of the boy's head, indulging in the instinctively paternal gesture for his own sake.

"Aman ilye hini," he breathed in benediction. Then the moment passed and he dropped his hand. Some of the clarity had returned to his bright eyes as his gaze locked with Folca's, and a quiet understanding passed between them.

"Come, brother," Folca spoke after a moment's pause. "We should find a bed for you."

"Not before I box his ears!" Suddenly Lindewyn stood in the doorway, one hand braced angrily on her hip while the other was clutched tightly around her cane.

When Aragorn looked up his breath caught in his throat. Lindewyn's stormy gaze fell heavily upon him, and in that instant he realized that she had been just as worried for him as he had feared for her.

"What were you thinking, joining the King's army?" she continued, angrily and deliberately pacing towards him. These questions had burned in her breast long enough and now she would have answers, heedless of any audience she had. "Heroes garner nothing except an early grave!"

"Thorongil saved many lives today," Folca spoke up when it appeared as though Aragorn was neither willing nor capable of defending himself, and his voice held an open rebuke. "Including that of the King."

By now Lindewyn had crossed to within ten paces of them, and she stood tall and firm on the treacherous ground. Her eyes bored into Aragorn as here in the aftermath of worry her relief morphed into anger.

Yet Aragorn could not speak, whether she would have him answer or not. Instead he willed his legs to move, and he closed the distance between them in heavy, halting steps. Lindewyn's anger faltered when she read the expression in his eyes. She saw nothing there but complete and utter relief, and with each pace it melted more and more into unbridled joy. She read his answer as he reached out to her, and the angry hand upon her hip came up with a fluid and forgiving grace to welcome him. He clumsily grabbed for that hand with his own, and as soon as their fingers touched they were pulling one another into a one-armed embrace.

One strangled sob was all his body could manage as he bent his forehead down to rest in the soft warmth between her shoulder and neck and buried his face in her honey-brown hair. That one abbreviated cry and his knees buckled beneath him. In the rush of the moment Lindewyn dropped her cane and brought her other hand around. Her strong arms wrapped around Aragorn's trembling frame and refused to let him fall.

There in the supporting arms of one he had given up for dead, Aragorn's emotions finally broke the dam. Now injured and exhausted, after having slain men and saved men, after towering successes and catastrophic failures, both overwhelming relief and crushing despair bled from eyes that could no longer stem the tide. Folca, Hilde, and Eolad turned respectfully away as Thorongil at last broke down and wept for all that he had lost, and found.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Noro lim, Ulmafan! Noro lim!_: Ride on, Ulmafan! Ride on!

_Ilúvatar_: God, for all intents and purposes.

_Ilye Vardo eleni_: (Q) All Varda's stars

_Ár_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): herald, so _Thorongil Ár_: Thorongil Herald, a title

_Ai heremann licgan Riddermark_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon): Ai soldier of (lit: belonging to) Rohan! (Translated into Westron from the Rohirric name for that country, _Riddermark_).

_Haradan_: 'Man of Harad,' ('Harad' literally means 'south' in Sindarin), a compound word akin to 'Dúnadan' (man of the west)

_Þǽrábútan_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): thereabouts

_Lǽtan Béma átǽsan gástléas_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): Let Béma strike (me) dead. (Béma being the name in Rohan for the Vala Oromë).

_Mellonin_: my friend.

_Annún_: (S) West

_Man le trasta, mellonin?_: What troubles you, my friend? (Taken from the translations of Aragorn's lines to Brego in the _Two Towers_ extended edition, presumed to be Sindarin.

_Hi sanga egla le?_: (S) This throng (has) forsaken you?

_Hin ú-marin n-hi_: (S) They should not have allowed (lit: abided) this to happen (lit: to be).

_Daro a tiro bar, mellonin_: (S) Stop and behold (lit: look towards, used to keep the sentence purely Sindarin) home, my friend.

_Hi na lonn si_: (S) This is safe (lit: haven) here

_Adar/Ada_: father/dad

_Aman ilye hini_: (Q) Blessed (are) all the children

* * *

**Places:**

_Morannon_: the Black Gate of Mordor

_Helm's Dike_: the foothills before the mountain location of Helm's Deep

* * *

**Notes:**

-Just as Varda hung the stars and is so exalted for it, Manwë is said to be lord of the winds of Arda, aka Lord of the Breath of Arda.

-Athelas was brought to Middle-Earth by the Númenorians, and it only grew in places where they planted it. However, Helm's Deep was originally a Gondorian fortress. It was turned over to the Rohirrim (who heavily fortified it) when the land it was situated on was gifted to the House of Eorl. It's not in total defiance of canon for a few sprigs of Athelas to be found growing nearby, and the word _athelas_ itself is from the Old English anyway, only with a pleural suffix so as to create the Elven word _las_, or 'leaf.'

* * *

AN: Thank you kindly to everyone who has waited patiently for this update. Thanks also for your reviews, especially those who weighed in on the genre question. After your input I have added action/adventure as a secondary genre. I also would like to remind everyone that if you wish a reply, either sign in or leave a valid email address. For news on the next update, check my profile. 


	19. Ch 11a: Salvaging the ashes, part 1

His brow was cool, yet still he slept. It was the exhaustion that kept him under, Lindewyn supposed, more so than the fever he'd finally beaten that morning. It hadn't been that high of a fever, but then Thorongil had been severely dehydrated and the healers had worried. He would take a little water when it was rung from a rag to splash into his mouth, but he hadn't yet been alert enough even in his delirium of the past two nights for them to chance pressing a cup to his lips. Hence he was still dehydrated, and that wasn't exactly helping his recovery. Lindewyn brushed an errant strand of hair away from his face as her hand left his forehead, and prayed to Béma that he would awaken soon and finally set her heart at rest.

It had been a pair of long days and even longer nights, but the Marshal's sister had kept a vigilant watch over the man who had become as close to her as family. This was helped some by the King's insistence that his herald be afforded some privacy for his recovery and he was soon moved into the bed that his Majesty himself had only recently vacated. Thengel refused to lie abed in idle convalescence when there was much work yet to be done. He regally commandeered the garrison commander's office and set up shop for the remote governance of his kingdom. Fortunately the arm swathed in bandages was not connected to the hand he used for applying his royal signature and long hours seated at a desk did not bother the splint on his opposite leg. Nevertheless a cot was crammed into the back of the room for whenever the healers grew too insistent. If nothing else, Lindewyn admired her King for his tenacity and willingness to endure. All the same, if that same subservient attitude towards his kingly duties was directly responsible for Thorongil's comfort and speed of recovery, then she was also immensely grateful for it.

"How is he?"

Lindewyn glanced up from her absent musings at Hilde's voice. Her sister-in-law had worked herself nearly as hard as her brother had in ensuring some semblance of order was to be found in the chaos that was the overcrowded garrison. As more capable of mastering the steep, winding staircase that led to this small room atop the keep, Hilde had been Lindewyn's emissary to the world below. Not that such an emissary was particularly needed, as both Folca and the Master Healer made regular visits, as did the young Eolad, whose concern for Thorongil toed the fine line between the professional detachment of his station and the personal concern for a friend. Between the four of them, the visits were nearly hourly.

"No change," Lindewyn informed his brother's wife, a hint of longing in her voice.

Hilde smiled softly, knowingly. "By all accounts, he truly does need the rest." She had heard—along with everyone else as the stories had flowed freely—of what Thorongil had endured as he accumulated a long string of heroic deeds.

"I wish he would wake, if only for a moment," Lindewyn admitted. "I need to see it in his eyes that he is well. Then he can sleep for as long as he needs."

Hilde nodded slowly, her fertile mind taking in the scene before her—of Lindewyn's tentative hold on Thorongil's hand that suddenly tightened through her words. She made her way to the other chair, the one beside the slumbering Captain Fengel, and sat with a convincing air of nonchalance.

"The King plans to send much of his éored ahead to Edoras to escort the first of the wounded," she began conversationally. "Our quarters will soon become much calmer."

"Will Folca be keeping his men here then?" Lindewyn asked, distracted for once from the man beside her by the matters at hand.

"For now, at least. Until Edbaning can be rebuilt."

"Our quarters indeed," Lindewyn mused around a rueful grin.

"Quite," Hilde answered, matching Lindewyn's sentiments with her own brand of resignation. "At least for Folca and myself, and the children," she added, her eyes already focusing intently on her unsuspecting sister-in-law. "I do believe the King intends to formally invite you to stay in Medusheld."

Lindewyn blinked, shocked but not all that surprised. The stone fortress was no place of a cripple after all, and Thengel was kin, albeit distantly. "If his Majesty invites, I suppose then that my brother will insist." Her tone did nothing to suggest that such fraternal dotage would be welcome.

"I don't doubt it," Hilde agreed quite plainly. "In fact, I wouldn't put it past him to send the children with you. The Hornburg is no place for infants and toddlers."

Lindewyn's eyes widened considerably. She hadn't considered that, however much sense it made. "What of the other children?" she asked on the tails of her realizations.

"Edoras would not be able to comfortably house the refugees from both Strathcomb _and_ Edbaning," Hilde replied. "Those with family elsewhere will most likely relocate—I do believe Folca will insist on that. As for the rest…" the trailing sigh gave way to a slight shrug. "I suppose the garrison will be home for now."

Lindewyn shared in the sigh. Then she returned her attentions to Thorongil, whose hand she still laxly clung to. After a few absent moments' consideration her face slowly lit up in an unexpected grin. Hilde was forced to restrain her own self-satisfied smile.

"I do suppose Thengel will recall him to his diplomat's station," Lindewyn mused, her eyes alit with hope and promise.

"He may," Hilde conceded, feigning casual. "Though I've heard rumors that he may offer to make the Herald's position a permanent one. Then there is of course the Master Healer, who has made it no secret that he wants to appropriate Thorongil's services for the Guild."

Lindewyn was positively beaming. Hilde allowed her own smile to surface if only to share in the joy.

"All three worthy pursuits, to be sure," she continued. "When he recovers, Thorongil will have some discerning choices to make."

"Yes," Lindewyn agreed, her mind already painting pictures of her dreams. "I can't tell which he would prefer."

"He'll have ample time for consideration, I'm sure, if the healers have their way concerning his recovery. I'm sure they'll want him in the Guild Hall as soon as he's fit to travel."

"Oh, most likely," Lindewyn affirmed, her joy restrained but not dimmed by the more pragmatic thoughts of seeing the man back to health. "I do believe Eolad has threatened such, involved sleeping draughts and tie-downs."

"Not surprising," Hilde replied around a knowing chuckle. Of the many Thorongil tales she'd been regaled with these past days, several were from the healers concerning the last time the man found himself on the receiving end and like most healers, he did not make a very good patient. "Well I must go," Hilde then admitted on an abbreviated sigh as she stood up. "Folca will be wanting an update, and so will the King."

"You can tell them that there has been no change in either patient," Lindewyn informed her as she made a furtive glance at the other bed. She felt slightly guilty about preferring one patient over another so prominently, but the captain had already awakened several times and was recovering well, and his current sleep was drug-induced.

Hilde nodded. "Do you need anything from the stores?"

Lindewyn glanced out one of the high, narrow windows, trying to gauge the sun's position in the sky. "The water's almost out," she answered. "Everything else can wait for the evening meal."

"So it will then," Hilde conceded. "I'll check back again before the bells of the midnight watch."

"See that it is some time before," Lindewyn warned. "You need your rest too, sister."

Hilde smiled affectionately though she made no promises. "Take care of them," she said in parting greeting. Then she disappeared down the winding stairs.

"I will," Lindewyn promised softly to the empty air. Her gaze fell to Thorongil and she smiled softly, her eyes warm with affection and hope. She reached for his forehead, needing to feel it cool again, needing to feel his skin beneath her fingertips and blushing slightly for it. "I will," she echoed as she pulled her hands away with awkward grace, and reached for the rag in the wash basin once more.

* * *

It was well past the bells of the midnight watch. The flames in the wall sconce had guttered low and cast flickering shadows across the amber-washed room. Lindewyn sat in her chair, nodding on the edge of sleep. She had intended to keep watch during the night, but after nearly three days of sufficing with catnaps the hours had finally taken their toll. Only the supreme discomfort of sleeping in her chair kept Lindewyn teetering on the edge of consciousness, regardless of her determination. 

And she would forever be grateful for it.

The throaty groan snagged in her sleep-muddled brain and jerked it back to wakefulness. "Thorongil?" Her tone was hesitant as her eyes raked in the man's still form, trying to discern if the sound she heard truly came from him instead of from some half-formed dream. It took only a moment for her to notice the tension that had gripped Thorongil's frame. His fists had clenched into the pallet and his arms were trembling slightly.

"Thorongil?" she called again as she reached out a tentative hand to feel his forehead. To her great shock he flinched at the touch, and her hand flew away as though it had been burned. It hadn't though. Though damp with sweat, his skin was cool.

A nightmare then.

Several times he'd stirred while under the grip of the fever. His head would toss from side to side and he would moan half-formed words she couldn't understand. She'd swab his face and neck with cool cloths until the delirium eased and he settled once more. Yet his fever dreams did not appreciate her touch, and it was only because his body lacked sufficient strength to fight her off that her ministrations were allowed.

Yet the fever had left him. Whatever was tormenting him now could not be blamed on the delirium.

There were times, especially after he returned from the Midwinter War, that she would wake to ominous sounds coming from Thorongil's room. Hurried words in that strange tongue she didn't understand, the thud of heavy objects hitting the wall, and once, blood-chillingly, a scream. Oh how she wanted to go to him then, to damn propriety and defy the imaginary boundaries that forbade her from crossing the threshold. But Thorongil was a private man, and she feared that he would actually prefer his nightly torment to her intrusion. She was ever unsure of their places in each other's lives, and without the certainty of answers her heart was free to dream. In the end it was her own fears that prevented her from acknowledging his nightmares, even in the next daylight. Her dreams festered in the miasma of ambiguity that pervaded their life together, but his rejection would be the deathblow and ever had Lindewyn preferred fantasy to stark reality.

But here, in this cramped little room atop the keep, in the dying torchlight, as Thorongil's thrashing grew erratic and the pitiful moans grew louder and more desperate, she knew her timid heart would not let her ignore him. Not when she could see the lines of anguish twisting his face. Not when the reality of his suffering confronted her, close enough to touch, pinning her to the wall of inescapable truth. Compassion and fear at war within her, Lindewyn slipped from her chair and shifted to sit on the side of the pallet that was his bed.

"Thorongil?" she called again as she reached out a tentative hand, and this time when he flinched she did not pull away. Her palm molded to the side of his face, her thumb unconsciously finding the warm wetness of tears obscured by the shadows on his face. Yet the nightmare reacted to her touch, and his fists flew up as though to defend himself.

"Thorongil!" she cried in alarm, trying desperately to wake him as one swing barely missed her chin. Lindewyn pulled back, abandoning his face in favor of trying to grab his wrists. "Thorongil, wake up!" she ordered as she grabbed the flailing limbs, but they were slick with sweat and he was strong. He ripped himself away, half sitting in the effort, hoarsely shouting over an arid throat.

"Thorongil!" Desperation lifted her voice an octave as she reached for him again, this time bracing both hands against the sides of his face. His hands flew to hers, strong fingers encircling her slender wrists. "Thorongil!" she cried, preferable to the shriek of pain that had nearly formed as tears pricked in her eyes—not entirely from her own discomfort.

Somehow the pained panic in Lindewyn's voice cut through the fog that clung to Aragorn's senses. Suddenly Lindewyn's cries were no longer in accusation nor in agony, but rather a plea that he could not ignore. He came back to himself then, her desperation guiding him like a beacon in a storm, and when he felt the pressure from her hands without the pain his eyes flew open.

"Thorongil?" Her voice was frantic, begging. His body was completely rigid with his breath coming in rapid, shallow pants, and the watery silver of his eyes had a wild look to them that frightened her. "Thorongil!" she pleaded, scared to death he didn't recognize her, even more scared that he was angry.

Then suddenly his gaze crystallized as awareness returned at last. He stared at her wide-eyed for a moment as his mind scurried to catch up with his senses. Lindewyn was kneeling beside him on the pallet, her hands framing his face and his fingers wringing her wrists. Slowly his grip relaxed as his breathing evened out, as the last lingering tethers of the nightmare slipped away.

"Lindewyn?" he rasped, almost afraid to believe that she was here, afraid to believe that he had truly woken.

Lindewyn offered a wilted smile as she nodded, but she could not speak. She could have cried in relief that he had at last been released from the demons in his mind if her heart wasn't beating wildly against its cage in unholy terror of this moment. There was no fantasy here, no chance to pretend. What would the man do now that he was awake? Now that she had interfered, made her presence known to him in the most intimate of ways? Her breath caught painfully as she waited for his reaction.

"Lindewyn!" he breathed, an anguished exclamation that tore at her heart. Then suddenly his hands unclenched. His arms flew about her with reckless abandon as he pulled himself up. She gasped at the sudden movement, at the sudden heat and sudden closeness as he clung to her with all the fierceness of a child's desperation. His breath panted against the side of her face, words she didn't understand ghosting past her ear.

In the next moment her own arms came up, one stretching across his broad, trembling shoulders to hold him close—still mindful of his injuries. The other smoothed back damp, sleep-tousled hair, soft fingertips tracing comforting paths down the base of his neck.

"It's over," she assured the huddled mass of tension in her arms, praying that her voice offered the comfort the lump in her throat threatened to becalm. "It was a nightmare, but it's over now. You're safe."

Slowly she felt the tension drain from him, the quivering steel of his body melting back into flesh and blood again. As his breathing continued to deepen, the arms that clung to her like burrs began to relax. It seemed that he had the mastery of his body again and that at any moment he might pull away. Reflexively she held him tighter, suddenly afraid to have him turn to her that she might see the emotions shining in his eyes, to have them reflected in her own.

All too soon the moment shattered. She felt him pull back, his hands dropping down from her shoulders to the small of her back, his delicate fingers sending a frisson up her spine, causing her breath to catch in her throat. The touch vanished even as she froze, but reformed at her elbows before she could recover. His hands loosely slipped down to her wrists again, this time with a gentleness that belied the absence of thought from the gesture. His quicksilver eyes stared at her with quiet intensity, as though he'd never quite seen her before.

Beneath his gaze Lindewyn felt herself crumbling. Didn't he know what his eyes alone could do to her? His face floated scant inches from her own and for one blinding moment she wondered what he would do—what _she_ would do, as time was measured in the pulse at her wrists where he held her still. In a remote corner of her mind she wondered if he felt the frantic pace her heart had set, or the tremors that had claimed her hands.

She didn't realize that she flinched, but suddenly his gaze snapped down to where his hands held hers. His fingers were pressing into the bruises that were slowly forming on her wrists and he gasped in alarm as he noticed the swollen heat of her skin.

"Lindewyn—"

"You were not yourself," she reassured him hastily; anything to drown out the haunted fearfulness of the question she couldn't bear him to ask because she dared not answer him, dared not cause him any more pain.

"I…" he foundered, at last releasing her, but she would not have it. She quickly caught his retreating hands in both of hers and brought them together, hers cocooning his despite the disparity of size. She squeezed them just tightly enough to force him to meet her eyes.

"In your dreams you do not know your own strength," she told him, her voice brought low by an undercurrent of desperation as she willed him to understand. She saw him shake his head, the anguished guilt in his eyes refusing her words. When he opened his mouth to speak she knew she would not withstand a verbal rendition of that look and before she knew it, one set of fingers swiftly flew to his mouth, forestalling him.

"Don't," she warned, her voice harsh yet breathless as her mind screamed against the risks her heart was taking. He recoiled slightly, either from her reckless instance or the casual intimacy of the contact—she dared not contemplate which. Her hand fell from his face and settled on his chest. He ignored it though, and his eyes did not once waver from her own. She could not read the intensity of his expression but his heart thrummed wildly beneath her hand, betraying him.

"Sleep," she directed, her teeth clenching around the command as her eyes winced shut, too afraid to wait for the words to manifest from his racing heart and too ashamed to admit that fear. Instead she retreated, giving him an out she prayed he would take, to pull back from the dangerous precipice of truth before it was too late.

Before he could protest she pressed against his chest, using her hand to urge him back down to the pallet. He did not resist, but the look he fixed her with was one of wounded curiosity and she wondered if perhaps—just perhaps—he feared the truth as much as she did. As she watched him resettle on the pallet in silence he made no move to dislodge the hand that still rested above his heart.

"Rest," she directed, more to break the stifling silence that had descended than anything else. "Your body needs it." He had no blanket—they had all been sacrificed for bandages long ago, but when his eyes flickered to hers, a fear directly unrelated to the moment swirling in their mercurial depths, how she wished that she could cover him with something! She silently yet vehemently cursed the war that robbed them of even of the shadows of comfort and the illusion of safety. That left them vulnerable and exposed and very, very afraid.

"I'll stay with you," she offered, shocked that her voice didn't tremble. All she had to offer him to ward against the nightmares was herself, and though her insides twisted themselves in knots with fear that he would reject this most personal of gifts her heart was spurred by the memory of her vicarious horror at his nightmare. She hovered on the brink, fearing his answer, but even as his heartbeat quickened beneath her palm his eyes warmed in gratitude. A smile slipped across her face—pure childlike delight—and perceiving his permission she folded herself down to lie beside him. Yet when she felt his body tense and heard his sharp inhale she realized that he misunderstood her intent. In her shock and sudden fear she ceased to breathe, but before she could recover she felt his body shift. He made room for her next to him on the pallet while she mastered herself, spots dancing before her eyes in heady relief.

Slowly, as her own breathing evened out, she felt Thorongil shift again, either to make himself more comfortable or to allow her to do the same. Yet the pallet was really too small to share, and Lindewyn was forced to press herself closely against him. They politely fought for comfort side by side, and eventually Lindewyn pillowed her head on his chest with one hand trapped beneath her and the other gently resting across his stomach. She held her breath, listening to Thorongil's heartbeat, silently willing him to relax, to accept her intrusion, to trust her.

As she gradually heard his heartbeat descend into relaxation she finally allowed herself to do the same, but she wondered what he made of her relieved sigh. After an awkward moment where his tension surged, she nearly jumped to feel his arm—the one that had been left dangling off the bed above her head, settle now across her shoulders. Reflexively she snuggled into him. Reflexively he tightened his hold.

Contentment stole her breath into another sigh. Exhaustion stole his consciousness.

The last thing Lindewyn remembered as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulled her down to dreams was her free hand snaking forward to ensnare the one that rested in its sling by his hip, of her fingers entwining with his—and his not resisting.

When Folca checked on the keep an hour after dawn he stopped short in the doorway at the sight of them—both were still sleeping soundly, not having moved once during the night. After a moment's pause he simply shook his head around a soft, understanding chuckle. He lingered a moment longer in the doorway before turning to descend the stairs, the smile still dancing on his lips and the light of approval still shining in his eyes.

* * *

Aragorn knew it was a dream. He and Arwen were lying together on a patch of clover on the knoll overlooking the grandest of Rivendell's waterfalls. Her head was pillowed on his chest, and their bare toes wrestled absently. They laughed together at the shapes they saw in the high fluffy clouds while his fingers absently combed through her silken midnight hair. The ground was damp beneath his back, and in the air, the scent of strawberries. He knew with absolute certainty that it was a dream and he was loath to leave it, for such bliss did not exist in the waking world. 

Yet when consciousness came calling, he could not long resist it.

The world suddenly grew dim, and Arwen's merry laughter echoed into silence. The pressure of her body eased and the warmth of her presence cooled. The moisture on his back grew clammy and his hand stroked at nothing. When his eyes at last fluttered opened, his wrist was still absently twitching, his fingertips the last to wake. But in the air, the scent of strawberries lingered.

Aragorn blinked, his mind slowly channeling phantom sensations away in favor of reality. His head rolled to one side and he saw a small nightstand, where something red was peaking out over the rim of a wooden bowl. Aragorn inhaled deeply, tasting the fruit on the air—one mystery solved. His heart allowed his eyes to slip closed again, seeking his dream world on the memory of that scent, and a vision of Arwen swam before his eyes anew.

"Meleth-nin…" he murmured on the exhale, but the vision faded as quickly as it came, leaving a bone-deep ache to settle in its place. With another sigh Aragorn opened his eyes again. His brow creased at the sight of the ceiling's masonry and for one blessed moment he was utterly confused as to where he was. One blessed moment, before he absently tried to stretch with both arms and was startled to discover that he _couldn't_. Then the pain of the injury returned, and the memories followed with alacrity: of riding to war, finding Strathcomb aflame, tripping over the body of a boy and the gut-wrenching realization that not all the villagers had escaped. Of finding himself fighting alongside King Thengel and outracing death in the ruin of Edbaning. Of Arlath's death and Folca's life and another eternity spent slaving through the gore and devastation that is the aftermath of war, saving those he could under the punishing knowledge that it was never enough. The events of the past few days pin-wheeled through his mind and boiled over, as though they had been brewing for a long time and yet remained unheeded until the very last.

Aragorn groaned, unconsciously curling in on himself—or trying to, through the pain of the separated shoulder and the bruised ribs. A headache staggered to life and he scrunched his eyes shut against the sudden harshness of the unfiltered sunlight. He rolled onto his side, facing away from the window and resting the sling across his body. When his left arm tried to escape his body's pressure it found the edge of the pallet still warm. This surreal discovery caught him off guard, and the memory of his dream pushed its way to the forefront of his mind's eye—of Arwen pillowed on his chest, their ankles entwined, her delicate form safely nestled in his arms. But then suddenly the vision shifted and realization tore through him like a serrated blade. It had not been Arwen to share his bed last night, and worse, it most certainly had not been a dream.

As though conjured by his very thoughts, Aragorn suddenly heard the click of Lindewyn's cane on the stairs. Then, before he could react, she appeared at the threshold, carrying a jug of water.

And so it was that Lindewyn returned to the keep that morning to find Thorongil already awake, his gaze falling on her with muted agony.

"Oh, Thorongil!" she exclaimed, startled. "But you were still sound asleep! I truly didn't think you'd wake yet. I did not intend—" she bit off the harried apology and glanced sharply away. If what she feared had happened (it hadn't, but how could she know?) then excuses would not sooth him. "I never meant for you to wake alone." Her voice was soft with guilt and she had to force herself to meet his eyes.

From his position on the pallet, Aragorn reeled. Lindewyn's confession, the haunted look in her eyes, the unspoken plea in her voice—and the memories surged. The sound of her voice, calling his name over and over again, overlapping his nightmare, pulling him back from grip of that black abyss. The touch of her hands, burning at first—_everything burned_—until he felt them—_truly felt them_—as a cool pressure on the sides of his face, framing his vision, anchoring his mind, forcing reality down his throat until he choked on its bitterness. But then, when awareness returned with a vengeance, when he found his hands on her hands on his face and felt a warmth that didn't burn, he had never been so grateful for another living soul.

After that it all grew vague, a hazy blur of warmth and comfort and a softly lilting voice assuring him that he was safe—assuring him that he was not alone. But after his heart relented and his body calmed—_oh!_ Those memories stole his breath away. The terrible moment when he realized that he'd hurt her—how deceptively easily it is to damage human flesh! Then her refusal to hear his apology, the touch of her fingers on his lips that burned in a much more frightening way. Reality, harsh and grating and wholly terrifying, burned away in the crucible of her hand above his heart, leaving nothing but their vulnerability to moment.

And she had been the one to pull away.

She loved him. He knew it as certainly as he knew has knew his own name. But in that moment when she began to pull away, when she ordered him to surrender again to the nightmares that seared the insides of his eyelids even now in daylight, he could see nothing beyond the horrors that lurked in the darkness of his dreams, could feel nothing beyond the absolute and total terror at the thought of losing himself to that again. The sheer relief at her promise to stay with him was blinding. Through the dizzying elation, he may have loved her then, but when the last of his fears receded and he found Lindewyn tucked safely into his embrace, he loved only the comfort of her presence, and the knowledge that he was not alone.

He had used her! His stomach flopped from the realization and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Lindewyn who loved him, who had dropped the armor from her heart and laid bare her soul in the effort to bring him comfort, who had only herself to offer him that he might find peace—and had offered willingly. This precious gift that she had given him—that he had accepted without question when he had no right to do so—that he could never, ever give back—he reveled in without so much as acknowledgement for what it may have cost them both, for now she stood across from him, her gaze intent and filled with a fear that he alone had caused, touched with an agonized guilt that he alone was responsible for.

"I was…" he began, and her eyes alit with fearful expectancy. Yet the words grated across his soul—what could he possibly say to her? "Just disoriented," he finished, the most truthful lie he'd ever told. "It's… I'm alright."

Except that he wasn't, not by a long shot, and Lindewyn could see it.

"I've brought water," she said quickly as she fully crossed the threshold. She set the jug down beside the pallet and sat down next to him. He reflexively recoiled when she reached out to him and a look of pained confusion flashed briefly through her eyes that wrung his heart. Her hand found his brow though despite his efforts, however the movement now was far more clinical than it might have been.

"You were a bit warm during the night," she informed to him. "I was worried the fever was returning, but you seem cooler now. You should drink though—you've been dehydrated."

Aragorn watched, slightly dazed, as the jug was hoisted up and placed squarely in his idle hands.

"Lindewyn—" his voice was strained. Where did he begin to apologize to her? Should he even? Would that just make it worse?

"Drink," she ordered, her voice steady, but he read the pleading in her eyes to not give voice to what she had seen in his own. He obeyed, lifting the jug clumsily to his lips with his left hand. Lindewyn saw that he couldn't manage it on his own with his injuries and, abashed, she reached out to help him. As she tried to steady the jug her hand brushed his and both of them flinched. The jug nearly fell but they both scrambled to prevent it, their skittish fingers blindly tripping over each other.

"Here," she offered, an embarrassed blush tinting her cheeks. "Let me."

At a loss, Aragorn allowed her. The jug was pressed to his lips and tilted back, and he drank greedily. All too soon though it was pulled away and he couldn't halt the whine of protest.

"You'll make yourself sick," Lindewyn chastised as she set the jug aside.

Now, nothing left between them but air thick with sudden tension, the two of them sat frozen. Then suddenly Aragorn's gaze was drawn down to Lindewyn's hands, twisted into knots atop her lap to stop herself from fidgeting. A slight frown marring his face, Aragorn reached out. Lindewyn gasped when his rough, calloused hand encircled hers and, caught in sharp surprise, her fingers untied at his gentle insisting. She held her breath as he brought her hand up, his fingers tracing delicately along the underside of her wrist. She felt her face flush from a heat completely unrelated to her earlier embarrassment and she cursed him that he didn't know what his touch could kindle in her.

"I was worried that I hurt you."

She wilted at his soft confession as the hands caressing the delicate flesh of her arm chilled down to a healer's touch, one that she had felt many times before. Then he released her, his fingers fraying in a freeing gesture, as though he expected her to pull away the minute she was given the chance. Hesitantly she drew back, thinking that she really ought to reassure him but unable to find the words.

"I—"

But whatever it was she was going to say was cut off by the sudden sound of footfalls on the stairs. They both turned sharply, startled, in time to see Eolad's face twist as he saw them, perceiving that he just stumbled into something private. With Aragorn and Lindewyn sitting on the pallet close enough to each other that their bodies nearly touched, it was an easy mistake.

If it _was_ a mistake.

"I—I'm sorry," the healer stammered. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's alright," Lindewyn interrupted, her voice perhaps sharper than it should have been. Then she grabbed her cane and stood from the pallet. "You need to see to your patients."

"Lindewyn—" Aragorn called after her, unable to stem the urgency in his voice, but she raised a hand in warding and his protest stalled. They faced off against each other for a moment, but neither seemed willing to speak—willing to endure what the other might say in return.

"Behave yourself," Lindewyn directed at length, her tone maternal, and before Aragorn could recover she turned her back to him and disappeared down the stairs.

Stunned silence dropped like a stone. Eolad fidgeted, awkward and uncomfortable. After a moment Aragorn remembered he was there, and his stricken expression was safely schooled away when he turned to regard the healer at last. Eolad startled, rather snapping to attention, his following grin sheepish and apologetic.

"Will you permit me?" he asked hesitantly. "Thorongil?"

Aragorn's expectant gaze turned questioning, but only for a moment. Then at last his mind caught up with the rest of him. "I'm fine, Eolad," he dismissed.

The healer's answering smirk was devoid of humor. "They must have a different definition of the word in your northern homeland," he mused. "Last I checked, a separated shoulder, three bruised ribs, and a concussion do _not_ equate 'fine,' at least in the Riddermark."

Aragorn blinked. "Concussion?"

Eolad released a long-suffering sigh. "Only a mild one," he explained as he claimed Lindewyn's usual chair beside Aragorn's pallet. "Fortunately your head is harder than it looks. That must be why you refuse to wear a helm." By now Eolad was running prodding fingers through Aragorn's hair, eliciting a wince and a bitten-off curse when he found the tender places.

"Swelling's gone down," Eolad informed him casually, ignoring his patient's obvious discomfort. Then he grabbed the candle sitting on the small table serving as a nightstand, and lit it swiftly with the flintlocks conveniently sitting beside it. Aragorn groaned in anticipation in the sparse seconds before Eolad's hand found his head again, this time pressing back against his forehead to encourage the correct angle for what he had in mind.

With Aragorn's head sufficiently inclined, Eolad then brought up the candle. Aragorn had to fight the urge to wince at the heat so close to his face, but it was the smell of the smoke had him sweating. He was panting by the time Eolad was through, bright spots dancing before his eyes as his vision returned from hazy white.

"I know it's uncomfortable," Eolad placated by way of apology as he blew out the candle and set it back on the nightstand. "At least you won't have to endure it again—until you hit your head again, that is. That's becoming a bit of a disturbing habit, don't you think?" Eolad rambled around his efforts to pull the abandoned water jug out from beneath Aragorn's pallet—where some unknowing foot had kicked it. Then he set it on the tabled, unclipped a tankard from his own belt, and filled that tankard with water. He didn't look to Aragorn again until he was ready to proffer the drink but when he did his eyes were uncommonly kind.

"Drink," he gently ordered. "You need it."

Aragorn stared at the tankard a moment, at Eolad giving his patient water with all the airs and attitude of a friend handing over a mug of ale. _You need it_, he'd said. Indeed, but not nearly as much as he'd needed those sparse seconds when the healer had blithely ignored him—and he suspected his friend knew that, too.

_Well met, Eolad._

Aragorn took the tankard and drained it, slowly yet steadily under the healer's appraising eye. When he was done the empty tankard was wordlessly taken from his grasp, and then he was wincing and squirming as Eolad's inquisitive hands found their way to his bruised chest—and the bruised ribs therein.

"These will heal," he said at length, eyes and hands still tracing the bruises, an angry swath of deep purple and sickly green blotted with the faded reds and pinks of incidental burns. "You'll hate yourself for a while, though," Eolad added as he pulled away at last.

"That I believe," Aragorn admitted ruefully. Then it seemed the words registered anew and his jaw clenched. His eyes were hard as his gaze fixed on something only he could see. He didn't so much flinch when Eolad began undoing the trappings for the sling on his right arm.

"It was a clean dislocation," Eolad offered, hoping to catch Aragorn's attention again. Wherever his friend was right now, it was far from pleasant. "I'm afraid you strained it though," the healer continued as he eased the arm out of the sling. Aragorn was brought swiftly back to the moment by the spike of pain as Eolad rotated his shoulder.

"The bones are fine," the healer continued in a professional tone once he was sure he had his patient's attention again. "But the Master is worried about the connective tissues—not that I blame him. He's going to want to inspect this for himself after more of the inflammation has eased a bit."

"They'll heal," Aragorn dismissed with an assurance he did not feel. Then he flinched, hissing through the pain as Eolad maneuvered his arm back into the sling again.

"If you let it," the healer warned as he finished refitting the splint to hang properly. "At least it was your other shoulder this time."

Eolad watched, alarmed, as the color drained from Aragorn's face while the arm beneath his hands seemed to solidify. An image of bleached granite sat in the man's place on the bed, all hard lines and sharp angles, the warmth of his flesh gone as still as the grave.

"Thorongil?" The question was hesitant, friend and healer vying for control of the moment.

Then suddenly and with a ragged exhale Aragorn reanimated, his own statue coming to life as his face fell and the hard set of his shoulders melted. His left fist clenched fiercely enough that the muscles in his forearm quivered. Eolad had heard, from the King and others, that Thorongil had been noticeably favoring his left hand towards the end. A cursory check for injuries revealed nothing overt, but perhaps…

"Let me see that hand." He tried for an order, but it sounded more like a plea. Aragorn's grip relaxed as he felt the healer's hands encircle his fist, but he blinked hard through a harsh exhale into the sudden rush of last night's memories, and the feel of Lindewyn's hands on his.

"It's cold." Eolad's alarmed voice startled him.

"I've… overexerted," Aragorn grudgingly explained, his mind beating his emotions back into submission.

"You shouldn't have if it'd healed," Eolad pointedly reminded him. "You've been in Edoras for months—why didn't you stop by the Guild and have it checked?"

The glare Aragorn fixed on the healer could have ignited wet timber. Eolad shrunk back slightly, involuntarily, before he caught himself.

"How bad?" he fairly demanded.

A tense silence hung between them and for a moment the healer thought Aragorn might not answer, but then suddenly the man sighed tiredly, defeated. He seemed to shrink in that moment, as though he'd suddenly been made more human by the gesture.

"The dexterity never quite returned," he said at length, in as plain a voice as he possessed. "And the shoulder would tire sooner than it should."

Eolad manipulated the fingers on the hand he held with a familiar pattern. Then he held the arm straight, rotated the wrist, bent the elbow, brought the arm above Aragorn's head, and rotated the shoulder. Aragorn didn't pay him any heed, but the far-away look in his eyes had Eolad wondering if he would have even felt the pain had there been any.

"Thorongil—"

"No pain," Aragorn cut him off, seemingly having read the healer's mind. "Well, apart from the ribs."

Eolad nodded, relieved—especially for having been told the truth. "We really should bind your chest." His voice rung with lamentation.

"We don't have the cloth," Aragorn reminded him—not that the reminder was needed.

"And this was better to treat your fever," Eolad added. "Something will be found before you ride out, but until then…" he let the truth linger in the air.

"When will that be?" Aragorn asked, suddenly curious.

Eolad shrugged, easily allowing the conversation to degenerate to one between friends. This was how he preferred to speak to Thorongil. "That's up to the Master Healer," he explained. "But not for a few days yet. The first caravan left this morning, the walking wounded and those who could sit a horse are returning to Edoras under guard. We shall have to see who is ready by the time their escort returns, and I think Folca has a mind to try and see his refugees safely delivered to their kin—if they have any elsewhere."

Aragorn nodded, his eyes drifting across the small room to the other pallet. He never thought that he could idly forget the other wounded in the garrison, but to his agony his realized that he'd done just that. His mind was beginning to feel the strains of whiplash, so constantly was it being wrenched between such widely different and painful memories. He could not focus on them all at once, though his guilt demanded it.

"How is he?" he asked when his voice found its way past the lump in his throat.

Eolad followed Aragorn's gaze. "He'll live," he assured his friend and fellow healer. "Your stitches held, and so far he hasn't taken to infection—must be that herb of yours." He saw Aragorn sag in relief and smiled softly. "When the riders return from Edoras they'll be bringing fresh supplies from the Guild Hall. Until then we're keeping the captain sedated. It's the best we can offer him for the pain."

Aragorn nodded, his healer's mind taking over for the moment. "And King Thengel?" Just for the moment, before his conscience pricked again.

"He may be the only patient here more difficult that you are," Eolad said soberly, though his eyes were alit with a covert smile. "He's already taken over one of the offices—he refuses to rule the nation from a sickbed, despite the splint and bandages. The Master Healer is doting on him, of course, though I fear he may very well strangle his Majesty if the King continues to find excuses to miss taking his required rests."

"There were no internal injuries?" Aragorn asked in hesitant disbelief.

Eolad's expression darkened. "Not that I was told."

"I had guessed at broken ribs," Aragorn explained. "But I didn't chance removing his armor to investigate that claim."

"I would have made the same choice," Eolad appraised. "Hopefully you simply overestimated and his Majesty isn't downplaying his pains for the sake of the nation."

Aragorn's frustrated silence spoke volumes. Then he grimaced. "Perhaps I should ask him."

To that suggestion Eolad actually laughed. Then, when he saw that Aragorn was serious, his amusement deflated. "You are braver than I thought." It was a pointed statement. Eolad knew well the lengths Thorongil would go to if driven, thoughts of personal safety be damned.

Here Aragorn shrugged, belying his uncertainty. Eolad just shook his head.

"Either way, you'll do naught until you've rested." Aragorn's imminent protest was cut off by a hand raised in strained patience. "I will drug you if I must, but you will rest now, Thorongil. You are more injured than you would like to admit."

As if encouraged by the healer's words, every last ache and pain suddenly made its presence known. Aragorn bit back a groan; Eolad allowed himself a knowing grin.

"You cannot argue with your own body and win," the healer informed him. "Don't worry, I won't let you sleep through the night—the Master Healer will want to have his way with your left arm."

At that, Aragorn finally allowed the groan. Eolad's grin was unrepentant.

"Sleep well, my friend," he said, entirely too cheerfully for Aragorn's liking, before he turned and disappeared through the doorway and down the stairs.

* * *

Indeed Aragorn slept, but alas, he did not sleep well. The nightmares eagerly welcomed his descent into oblivion and, in the extravagant gala they held for him behind his eyes, each tortured memory of the previous few days insisted on dancing with him in turn, and out of turn, and over and over in a whirlwind cascade until at last he tumbled into wakefulness. 

The minute his tormentors released him Aragorn shot bolt upright on the pallet over the enthusiastic disapproval of his ribs. Panting, sweating, and sore from the restless tension his body had endured in his mind's absence, he was grateful beyond words to find the afternoon sun still slanting down through the high windows. Like the child he had for years fastidiously insisted he'd outgrown, he found himself ridiculously glad for the light as one by one, the chains of terror uncoiled from his heart. They shrank away like living things, writhing back down into the darkness, fleeing from the daylight. As his body kept time with the pains that thrummed along with his racing heart the memories faded away, evaporating like predawn fog in the face of the sun until all that remained was the indistinct memory of terror that lingered in the corners of his mind's eye, taunting him from beyond his reach.

And so Aragorn sat, his knees gingerly pulled up and encircled by his left arm, cradling his right against his body, cushioning his chest and pillowing his chin. He needed to see and feel the sun, to prove that it was real and that a world existed beyond the one his nightmares painted for him. Yet here in the cramped room atop the keep, with Captain Fengel drifting blithely in an herb-fogged sleep his only company, Aragorn knew that there was precious little difference between his nightmares and reality. In this well-meaning prison, curled into a watchful ball atop his pallet because there were no covers to hide beneath, Aragorn registered his need for the warm touch and warm voice of another living soul as a physical ache—just another of the many. In that moment, he would have preferred the shame of his wounded adult pride to the chill of isolation. He would have given anything not to be alone.

In the end, it was Hilde who rescued him. Before the sun completely died she appeared on the threshold of the staircase, carrying a tray laden with what smelled divinely like his first real meal in days.

"I thought you'd be awake by now," she said, smiling brightly as she entered. Aragorn, whose pride had forced him to abandon his pensive posture the moment he heard footfalls on the stairs, scooted eagerly to the edge of the pallet over the protests of his stiff muscles, smiling the smile of those who'd found salvation.

"You didn't eat the strawberries?" she noted, a bit surprised, as she made room for her tray atop the small table around the candle, flintlocks, and heretofore untouched bowl of fruit. Then she shook her head. "No matter. They were Lindewyn's, so that she wouldn't starve between the bells of the morning and evening meals."

Aragorn's realization that he had completely forgotten about the strawberries was truncated by the mention of their rightful owner. Then the memories flooded him, washing out his smile as his heart clenched.

"It's probably better that you didn't," Hilde continued, now dragging the table closer to the pallet so that it might suit her designs. "Too much sugar." Her back was to Aragorn and so she missed the torrent of emotions that danced across his face like the shadows of drifting clouds. When she turned back around Aragorn had regained his control—his rumbling stomach and the tantalizing scents wafting from the table helping the effort considerably.

"For you honor at not pilfering Lindewyn's strawberries you've earned a feast of watery broth—beef stock carrying the vaguest memories of potatoes and carrots. If you can manage it, it'd probably be easier just to drink the stuff instead of fumbling with the spoon." Her smile was slightly teasing as she presented his meal with mock-flourish. Aragorn had no choice but to laugh, though only slightly for the effort affronted his ribs. The Third Lady was always able to lift his spirits.

For now, it was easy to give sway of the moment over to his stomach instead of his heart. He gingerly lifted the bowl in his awkward left hand and raised it to his lips. Nothing had ever tasted so divine! He finished it quickly—perhaps too quickly, his healer's mind warned him, but once he started he couldn't stop until he'd consumed every last drop. When finally the bowl clattered from his exhausted fingers he was panting from the effort, yet the lingering warmth of the broth and the supreme satisfaction and relief of a contented stomach kept the lazy smile on his face.

"For that feast, my lady, I am eternally in your debt."

Hilde merely smirked at him, though not unkindly. "The healers will be pleased, I'm sure."

"Have they sent you with further instruction?" he asked, suddenly pensive. He did not want to sleep again—_ever_ again.

"Only that I make certain you eat," Hilde replied, still smirking. "They seemed to worry that it would take some measure of force, but I suspect that's because _they've_ never cooked for you."

Aragorn had the good graces to blush slightly at the barb. He and Lindewyn had shared many meals with Hilde and the children, especially when Folca was away. Hilde set a remarkable table, and Aragorn found the tastes too good to resist second helpings, or third if there was no dessert. More than once, the ladies had asked—only half joking—where he put it all.

"You are a talented cook, my lady," Aragorn insisted sincerely, and Hilde's smile flashed wide and genuine.

"Well as much as I hate to serve and run…" the regret in her voice was softly teasing, matching the self-deprecating smile, as she gathered up the empty bowl and unused spoon. "You aren't the only patient the Master Healer has consigned me to feed, and the others aren't going to be half as willing."

"Perhaps because you've never cooked for them?" Aragorn offered quite seriously.

Hilde shot him a withering look, but it was undercut with the traces of an amused smile. "Sit tight," she directed as she gathered her tray. "The Master Healer will be here to see you shortly."

That simple statement caused the lightness of the moment to evaporate from the room. Aragorn bowed his head, nodding slightly, forcing back a sigh of resignation. When he looked up again he forced himself to meet Hilde's eyes with whatever remained of his dignity.

"Thank you, my lady," he said soberly.

Hilde's answering smile was soft and warm, matching the hand that reached out to squeeze his shoulder slightly in comfort and commiseration. After that she turned, and as the echoes of her footfalls faded away Aragorn found himself once again alone.

He was lying on his back on the pallet staring fixedly at the ceiling when the Master Healer found him.

"Thorongil?"

Aragorn had been counting the cracks in the masonry, forcing his body to present the illusion of relaxation, forcing himself not to react to the sound of heavy footfalls until he heard the man's voice.

"Master Aldwine." Aragorn partially succeeded in sounding like he hadn't heard the man coming (because he had been 'resting') as swung his legs over the side of the pallet and sat up, perhaps a bit too eagerly to aid his subterfuge.

The Master nodded, his sharp eyes scouring Aragorn's form. "Awake, I see." Aragorn wasn't sure if he imagined the disappointment he heard in the gruff appraisal.

"Just recently," he lied with fluid grace. Indeed, lying to doting healers was something with which he'd had lots of practice, and none are harder to fool than Lord Elrond. "In time for Lady Hilde's stew."

The Master frowned at him but said nothing, and when he redirected his attention to Captain Fengel Aragorn wisely stayed silent. Aragorn watched as the Master checked his patient's pulse and breathing. Then he tipped back the man's eyelids, snorted at the faint groan Fengel offered, and proceeded to gently unwind the bandage.

Aragorn rose from his pallet. "Let me help you," the healer in him offered without thinking.

The Master shot him a sharp glance over his shoulder. "With both your shoulders injured?" he asked with an almost condescending sense of incredulousness.

Aragorn flinched, halting in his trek across the room, but after a moment he swallowed thickly and continued. Despite the truth to the Master's words, Aragorn couldn't deny the responsibility he felt for Captain Fengel. He had to see for himself how the man was faring, and so he knelt beside the Master's chair at Fengel's bedside.

"This man owes you his life, you know," the Master said quite conversationally, having apparently consented to let Aragorn watch. When he pulled back the bandage—a brown one, meaning that the dressing had been changed at least once, Aragorn realized—the row of stitches was clean and neat—and distinctly familiar.

"You did not change his stitches?"

"He was doing so well, there was no need."

"But, the inner stitches—"

"There has been no sign of infection or internal bleeding," the Master patiently informed his concerned colleague. "The fever was mild and easily treated—most likely because he arrived before the final swarm when we still had adequate supplies. He sleeps now only because it is easier for his pains—we have run out of herbs to ease them, but to make a man sleep? Aye, we can do that still, and hopefully until the riders return."

Aragorn could only stare as the realization slowly settled. Amidst all the tragedy and loss of the past few days, something had been salvaged. He hadn't the speed to save Strathcombe, hadn't the power to prevent the holocaust that Edbaning became, hadn't the strength even to save one he had called friend, but if his failing hands had found the skill to save one man in this dreadful war, then all he had both inflicted and endured here had not been in vain. Amidst all his failures, this one victory shone brightly ahead of the litany like a polar star—and how like one of Varda's precious jewels it was! Its meager brilliance, uncaring in its inability to beat back the darkness, measured its gift not in light but rather in _hope_, and it soothed Estel's spirit in a way he had not realized he needed until he actually felt the balm upon his soul.

"And now for you, young Thorongil."

Aragorn blinked, startled to find that the Master had already finished rewrapping Captain Fengel's bandage and even more startled find himself under the man's scrutinizing gaze.

"What is this I've been told about your left shoulder?"

Aragorn sighed wearily, knowing there was no escape, loath to return to his darker memories. His left hand involuntarily clenched and unclenched a fist. "Weakness," he admitted, unable to keep the disgust from his voice, grateful that it covered the pain. "Lack of dexterity."

The Master Healer returned the sigh. "That was always a possibility," he admitted fatalistically, though there was a touch of sadness in it, of pity for his patient that was slightly out of place. "Between the poison and the way the arrowhead had imbedded itself in the bone…"

Aragorn found himself nodding. Indeed he had known, and feared, and denied.

"How is it now?" the Master asked suddenly.

Aragorn took a serious moment to truly contemplate the matter, forcing his healer's mind to focus on the task at hand and denying his heart any say in the matter. Yet as he looked down at the offending limb his eyes gave him away, their silvery depths flashing with the anger and hurt of the betrayed.

"Near as I can tell, no different than it was before the battle," he appraised, his voice deceptively even. "It's only under strain that its weakness is revealed."

The Master Healer nodded, and Aragorn bit back a gasp as the man suddenly took that hand in his. He felt along the fingers to the palm, and then along the wrist up to the elbow before finally kneading through the upper arm towards the shoulder.

"Eolad noted a temperature difference, but I can't find it. Has your hand felt cold?"

Aragorn's frown turned pensive. Were cold and numb the same thing? Before he could answer the Master sighed.

"So little is known about these types of injuries," he confessed with all the frustration of a healer who could not help his patient. "If your shoulder hasn't healed by now, then the help you need is beyond the skills of the Guild."

Aragorn nodded around yet another weary sigh. "I thought as much," he admitted ruefully.

"Perhaps in Dol Amroth, at the university, you could find the healing you seek."

This caught Aragorn's attention. The gaze he fixed on the Master was bright and clear, devoid of the darker traces that had encroached with the discussion of such a heavy topic. "The university?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral, barely restraining the hope he feared to embrace.

The Master nodded. "Those who say that the best healers in Middle-Earth hail from Gondor fail to note where they received their education. My own master studied there, many years ago."

"And they, they might know how to help me?" Aragorn asked hesitantly, his resolve to remain pessimistic noticeably crumbling.

"If anyone can," the Master hedged with a shrug. "I could speak to the King on your behalf. Your services belong to him for as long as you bear his horn."

"I… do not wish to disappoint him," Aragorn confessed. Then, more sternly: "Or neglect my duty."

"You would serve him better whole," the Master pointed out quite bluntly. "And as you had been a diplomat once, in such service his Majesty might deign to keep you—as an ambassador perhaps?"

Aragorn nodded slowly, pondering the logistics—and consequences—of such a suggestion. The Master favored him with a warm smile.

"I will speak to him," he pledged, patting Aragorn's troubled left arm in what had to have been a deliberate gesture. "Meanwhile you rest. Tomorrow might prove fateful."

* * *

**Translations:**

_Béma_: the name in Rohan for the Vala Oromë

_Meleth-nin_: my beloved

* * *

AN: Thank you kindly for your reviews and also for your patience in waiting for this update. As always I remind you that if you wish a reply, either sign in or leave a valid email address. For news on the next update, check my profile. 


	20. Ch 11b: Salvaging the ashes, part 2

Dawn found Aragorn curled into a ball atop his pallet, but his weary, bloodshot eyes regarded the lightening sky with exhausted elation. As both occupants of this smallest of infirmaries were now well enough to not require constant vigil Lindewyn had not returned, and so Aragorn was left alone to keep the watch after the Master Healer departed. Through the long hours of the night he fought his toughest battle yet in his efforts to remain alert as the sconces guttered out, and the only light that reached him drifted in through the high windows, washing the cold stones in the faint, dreary silver of diffused moonlight.

Darkness settled thickly in the small room and the lingering odor of sickness hung close in the air, yet even as his treacherous mind likened the keep unto a tomb Aragorn refused to light the bedside candle, not even during his hourly checks on Captain Fengel, for which he relied on his sense of touch alone. The burnt scent of the candle and the subtle shift of the flame as it caught in the slight, unfeeling breeze would have been too great a temptation for the demons that stalked the darker recesses of his mind. Tonight he refused to be their victim.

Through the long, oppressive dark of the autumn night Aragorn kept the lonely watch, his care to the injured captain born more from a need to force his body to move and his mind to focus than from any real concern for the man's wellbeing. Yet any sense of pride he felt in knowing that he was responsible for the captain's imminent recovery had long since run dry, buried in the constant torment of memory just as surely as tonight's moon was buried in the clouds, leaving Aragorn to wallow, mind and body, in stifling shadows.

When he wasn't at the captain's side he was sitting on his makeshift bed with his knees drawn painfully close to his chin, or lying on his stomach amidst the protests of his shoulder and ribs, or pacing when he could stand the stillness no longer. His mind had become his greatest enemy with his exhaustion its greatest weapon, and though the effort nearly proved to be more than he could bear, he suffered not one ounce of sleep that night, and the peal of the morning bells echoed in his heart with the knell of petty victory.

Yet the clouds that served to hide the moon did well to block Anor's early light, and the morning that greeted him was pale and gray. A single birdsong echoed through the air, all the louder for its loneliness. Aragorn stood at the window. With his height he was able to face the new day at eye level, and he couldn't help but wonder if the world hadn't fought its own epic struggle against the terrors that haunted its darker depths last night, and this subdued morning was the evidence of its own exhaustion. It was an apt analogy, his weary mind conceded, considering that the fate of Arda was supposed to parallel his own.

"Have you not slept at all?"

Hilde's voice startled him, but his body was too tired to react properly to the event. Instead Aragorn turned around, his expression a half-hearted mask of surprise at being caught unaware. He hadn't heard the Third Lady enter. For a brief moment he contemplated lying, yet in his heart he knew his haggard appearance would betray him. Instead he sighed and allowed his gaze to fall self-consciously to the floor.

"Need I remind the healer that his body still needs its rest?"

An ironic smirk twisted Aragorn's lips for half a moment. "Not his body, no." Then he frowned, as though he hadn't meant to speak that thought aloud and was both puzzled and dismayed by the sound of his own voice. He still didn't meet Hilde's eyes; his gaze remained fixed on the floor even as he heard her close the distance between them.

The sudden soft warmth of her hand cupping the side of his face, then, was another shock, and his eyes snapped up of their own volition. Hilde was a petit woman even among the Rohirrim and thus Aragorn still had to bow his head in order to meet her eyes. When he did, he found himself the subject of a gentle, maternal scrutiny. After a moment though she smiled, as though she'd found whatever answers she'd sought, and she moved her hand from his face to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear.

Aragorn had heard it said that some women were born predisposed to motherhood, but the adage found personification in the Marshal's wife and he was momentarily blindsided by a sharp, familiar pang of longing that vanished just as swiftly as it came. Though he had been dearly loved in Rivendell, he hadn't been _mothered_, not in the true sense of the word and a part of him, it seemed, would always ache for it. It always had, ever since he'd learned what a mother was supposed to be, and remembered why he didn't have one.

"I have your breakfast," Hilde announced, unaware of the turn Aragorn's thoughts had taken. "If you will not sleep, you must at least eat."

It was then that Aragorn noticed a tray sitting on his bedside table, adorned with a steaming bowl of what was likely some species of porridge, and a goblet. Before Aragorn's weary mind could formulate a suitable reply his stomach spoke for him, rumbling loud enough for Hilde to hear, and the corners of her mouth tipped up in wry amusement. A blush tinted his cheeks for a moment as he nodded, his eyes finding the floor again.

"Thank you," he managed to mumble, all too aware of the awkward ineffectiveness of the gesture. Yet Hilde merely smiled again, regarding him with indulgent affection for a moment before she turned and stepped gracefully aside in a flourish of skirts.

Aragorn walked back to his pallet, where he'd grown accustomed to taking his meals, and lifted the tray into his lap as he sat. He sniffed the dark liquid in his goblet first and was surprised to find watered wine.

Hilde must have noted his startled expression. "Compliments of His Majesty," she informed him, that indulgent smile bleeding into her voice. "Though the healers would not allow it until there was far more water than wine."

A fond smile twitched Aragorn's lips. "He has my thanks." Then he took a sip… and grimaced. "For the thought, at least."

Hilde laughed as she appropriated Lindewyn's chair, but her discerning gaze leaked sympathy whenever Aragorn endured a sip from the goblet. She sat through his entire meal, mercifully content to simply let him eat. Or more likely, content to ensure that he actually ate it, per order of the healers. They needn't have worried. Aragorn's long night had left him famished and he made short work of the meal, though by the end he found himself wishing that the goblet contained either water _or_ wine, not both.

"His Majesty meant well," Hilde said when he set the tray aside.

Aragorn tried for an answering smile, but it came across more like a grimace. However, any further rumination was prevented by a sudden, familiar noise: the creaking of stressed wood. Aragorn's attention snapped to the other pallet as Captain Fengel shifted again, the redistribution of weight resulting in another audible protest from the man's pallet frame.

"The Master Healer hoped he'd wake this morning." Aragorn heard Hilde say as he stood. He also heard her hesitant footsteps follow him as he crossed the short distance to where the captain lay. He knelt at Fengel's side and brought a hand to the man's forehead, eliciting a groan. When the captain brought an awkward hand up, presumably to bat away whatever had landed on his face, Aragorn reached out with his free hand and gently captured it. The captain's grip tightened reflexively around Aragorn's thumb and he groaned again, yet when he tried to pull away Aragorn held fast.

"Lasto beth nîn, hir-gon." Aragorn's voice was low and entreating. When he saw the captain's eyes shift beneath his eyelids he tightened his grip on the man's hand. "Fengel, tolo dan n'galad."

Another groan, and then at last the captain's eyes fluttered opened. After a few frantic blinks to clear his vision his brows snapped together in a frown. "Who in Béma's halls are you?" Fengel's voice was hoarse from lack of use, but it managed to convey incredulous curiosity anyway.

Aragorn gaped, taken aback by the abruptness of the question, and then he was hastily removing his hands from Fengel's person. He looked to Hilde for guidance only to discover that she'd disappeared, most likely to summon the Master Healer. For the moment, Aragorn was on his own.

"My name is Thorongil. I'm—" too late, he realized that he had no idea how to classify himself now. "A healer," he settled on. It was true enough.

Fengel seemed to take a moment to asses his situation, and the young man kneeling beside him. "Well, I guess that means I'm not dead yet."

Aragorn nodded, impressed by Fengel's candor. "So it would seem."

"And the king?"

"He lives."

The captain shoved himself up onto his elbows. "But is he well?"

Aragorn hesitated, unsure of his answer and all too aware of captain's urgency. "I have not seen him," he admitted. "Though others have. He is well enough to take charge of the garrison, but I cannot attest to any more than that."

"Thengel would assume command the garrison from his deathbed," Fengel surmised, distressed. Fortunately the arrival of the Master Healer spared Aragorn the need to answer.

"Ah, Lord Fengel. Awake at last I see." The healer strode into the room, his habitually grim features offset by a sardonic smirk.

"Tell me of the king," the captain demanded. "I must know if he is well."

The healer sighed, rather dramatically. "He's on his feet whenever my back is turned, he isn't resting when he should—we've actually taken to drugging his ale at night to get him to retire. In short, captain, he's perfectly himself, though whether or not he is _well_ is another matter entirely."

That answer seemed to pacify the captain; he relaxed back onto his pillow again. "That sounds about right."

The healer frowned. "Quite." Then he laid his own hand across the captain's brow, assessing the man's temperature, before bringing his fingers down to check his pulse at the neck. Aragorn couldn't help the rush of satisfaction he felt when the healer stepped back, apparently satisfied.

"So how do you feel this morning?" the healer asked in conversational tones as he knelt down beside the captain.

From where he stood Aragorn couldn't quite see what the Healer was up to, but he could guess. His sense of decorum swiftly overcame his own healer's instincts and he turned away. He was still a stranger to Fengel, despite his intimate knowledge of the man's abdominal cavity, and he knew how _he_ would feel if ever a stranger sat in on his own examination. Employing his well-honed stealth, Aragorn slipped unnoticed from the tower and descended the stairs. The captain's questions had reminded him of his own concern for King Thengel and this seemed the perfect time to seek some answers.

* * *

Aragorn dimly recalled being awed by the sheer _presence_ of Helm's Deep when he'd first arrived; how it seemed to simply grow out of the earth itself like the mountains that braced it. That, of course, had been before he'd actually stepped inside the fortress, whereupon his view had narrowed considerably. The legendary garrison behind the Deeping Wall, with its labyrinthine passageways and endless honeycomb of rooms, annexes, and hollows stretching back beneath the mountains did not exist to him, not then. What he'd found instead was barely a hospital, where the injured and dying were packed in like paving stones and with bloody straw for mortar, where their gasps and cries and screams echoed off its cavernous walls. Where was the fabled Great Hall extolled in tradition and song, where kings had sat and armies had mustered and men had learned of the dignity in endurance? This had been no more than a massive charnel house, stifled by the heat of a thousand candles, where only the flies could spare the time to pay homage to the dead. 

Aragorn might have forgotten, in the aftermath of all he'd endured, the untold hours that he'd slaved in this place. Fresh from the horrors of battle and exhausted after the march from Edbaning, when he first arrived he'd seen only the opportunity; the chance to lose himself in the role of a healer so completely that he could cease to be anything else, to bury his heart deep down in a place that not even memory could reach. He might have remembered only that he'd helped to save lives, and allowed the rest to be swallowed by the haze of pain and fever. He might have escaped Helm's Deep without being reminded that nightmares could contain far worse than scenes of battle…

If only he hadn't blundered down an unknown corridor in his search for Thengel and, after the innocent swing of a door, found himself standing at the heart of it again.

He'd come through a side entrance, one he hadn't known existed, and his startled gasp caught in his throat as he gagged. The entire place reeked of blood and bowels and herbs and sweat and—_death_. That's what it was. Its pervasive miasma hung thick in the air. Even though the room was positively dim with just the torches on the walls for extra light, even though the floor had been swept clean of straw and long tables stood in place of the rows upon rows of pallets and beds where men now slaved over parchments instead of casualties, Aragorn would have known this place. Just one breath, and the memories came roaring back, for the very air stank of death.

Death, and athelas.

Just standing there, breathing that air, Aragorn felt his stomach roil. He was sure he was going to be sick.

"Thorongil?"

And he probably would have been, too, if someone hadn't suddenly called out to him. If a hand hadn't suddenly gripped his good shoulder and startled him completely out of any reaction his body was about to accomplish. Folca, Aragorn realized. Who else would it have been?

"Are you sure you should be out of bed?" the Marshal asked critically as his gaze swept over Aragorn, no doubt taking in his sickly pallor and unsteady stance. "You do not look well to my eye."

"I…" Aragorn stifled the instinct to take a deep breath. "Perhaps some air, I think."

Folca nodded. He shifted his grip to Aragorn's elbow and led him gently yet firmly across the Hall to the main doors. Aragorn rather resented this assumption of weakness on his part and had half a mind to shake off that hand. He was forced to reassess his situation though, when he noticed patches of pale stone dotting the floor and—too late—realization struck him like a physical blow. Before, he'd taken it for granted that the stones in the floor held the shades of mottled rust. Now he knew, with a sickening clarity that made his vision start to tunnel in, what the floor's _true_ color was, and worse, why he had not noticed it beforehand.

Then suddenly there was a great grating noise and a blast of cool air. Aragorn felt himself bodily maneuvered until the backs of his legs hit up against something solid. His momentum carried him backwards and he lost his balance, only to find himself seated—hard—atop something that groaned under his weight. Slowly the rest of the world trickled back in before his senses. Only then did Aragorn realize that he was in the courtyard between the Deeping Wall and the garrison proper, sitting on an empty crate.

"Better now, Thorongil?" he heard Folca ask, a touch of impatience in his tone. When Aragorn looked up he saw that his friend was casually leaning against the nearby wall, arms folded across his chest, and studying him with muted intensity.

Aragorn felt heat rise in his cheeks and he glanced briefly away. He realized then that what he had taken for impatience in Folca was really something more like concern, carefully but not quite successfully restrained. He'd seen groomsmen behaving similarly when reaching out to injured, skittish horses. It pricked at his pride; a feeling that was only made worse by the simple truth that he had most definitely earned such attention from his friend. Embarrassed by his weakness, Aragorn merely nodded and focused on simply breathing; all the while under Folca's watchful eye, as though he was an untamed stallion that might bolt at any moment.

"Good," Folca spoke at last, once he was reasonably sure that Aragorn was in control again. "Mind telling me what you thought you were doing?"

The Marshal's voice was carefully, deliberately conversational, and it rankled for it was a tone Aragorn recognized. He'd heard it often enough growing up, sometimes covering those very words. Conversations that started with questions like that never ended well, as a lecture inevitably followed whatever answer he gave. If he was lucky, a lecture was _all_ that followed yet more often than not, his father would dock privileges, or Erestor would assign lines or extra essays, or Glorfindel would set him to fletching arrows—which, come to think of it, was probably why he was now quite skilled at the task.

For all of it though, Aragorn held no delusions about his adolescence. At the pinnacle of teenaged angst he'd felt increasingly isolated as the only human among elves who couldn't possibly relate to him, and increasingly confused about why everyone seemed to deliberately avoid his questions. They were questions about his real parents, about members of his family that supposedly still lived among the Dúnedain, and they festered in his heart and turned earnest curiosity into mounting insecurity. Worse still, his brothers—who had ever been willing to take the time to explain the inner workings of the minds of elves so old they'd forgotten what it was like to be young—were leaving him behind in their quests for adventure with increasing frequency, even to the extent of monopolizing Legolas's rare visits. It left him feeling resentful and abandoned—and angry—and his father, tutor, and weapons-master had born the brunt of it: words he'd recognized even then that they did not deserve, and worse, some he'd reasoned they'd actually earned. Then there was the hole he'd punched through his bedroom wall (now hidden behind his dresser) and quite a few invaluable antiques that had met their end in his hands.

He'd grown out of it, of course, and in hindsight he'd accepted that he'd most assuredly deserved those punishments and probably more, besides. Thus he choked back the sarcastic answer that had first leapt to mind, resolving that if he had in fact matured then he probably should show it. Moreover, Folca deserved better from him.

"I simply grew tired of staring at the same four walls, hour past hour," Aragorn confessed, entirely unable to help his petulant tone. He still did not appreciate Folca taking him to task about leaving his sickbed, not when the man had completely misinterpreted the reasons behind his reactions in the Great Hall.

Something in the Marshal's gaze softened then—sympathy perhaps? Though not quite enough of it to undermine his obvious exasperation, as he clearly perceived Aragorn's health as being more fragile than it truly was.

"I can assure you, you'll have an even greater aversion to them if you deal yourself yet more harm through overexertion and end up confined to bed."

"I have _not_ overexerted myself," Aragorn hotly defended. "Really, I feel fine," he added, calmly this time as he earnestly glanced up and met Folca's eyes. "I'm not even tired."

The Marshal must have thought Aragorn sounded entirely too innocent. "Really. And I suppose it's perfectly natural for you to hyperventilate when you feel fine?"

"That—" Aragorn bit off the rest of his reply and looked away, flushing as the words crashed inside his mind. He tried again, but he couldn't bring himself to look up at Folca again. "That had nothing to do with exertion."

"What then?" Folca demanded, his tone short.

Aragorn could tell the man didn't exactly believe him and felt a surge of anger at the thought—Folca had all but called him a liar!—but he quickly suppressed it. He didn't want to argue with his friend. Yet when he tried to explain, to tell Folca the truth behind what happened in the Great Hall, the words just wouldn't come. The pain was still too raw, the reality of it too fresh in his mind. He felt the panic (yes, _panic_, he belatedly realized) hovering within easy reach of his memories, and so couldn't bring himself to speak of them.

"I know about your arm," Folca said suddenly, softly, as though giving voice to an epiphany.

Aragorn glanced up sharply, his expression guarded.

"The Master Healer told me," Folca continued. "Along with your concerns." Here the Marshal seemed to hesitate, as though carefully weighing his words, but he pressed on a moment later. "Thorongil, you have suffered grievous injury. There is no shame in that, and not a man among us would think you less a healer for seeking outside help to overcome it. If there _is_ healing for you in Dol Amroth then King Thengel would certainly give you leave to find it."

For all of Folca's earnest intent, Aragorn was so completely taken aback that he could have laughed. Is _that_ what the Marshal thought was troubling him? It couldn't have been farther from his mind! The startled humor evaporated though, in the face of what Folca said next.

"Yes there is weakness in your body still, but that is not your fault. You'd go with his _blessings_, Thorongil. It wouldn't be an act of dismissal. Think of my sister—weakness of body does _not_ mean weakness of character!"

Oh. So Folca still thought he had overexerted himself, but because he feared repudiation for being weak. Though the words had been good to hear in their own right, they violently derailed his thoughts and brought them crashing back to a different matter entirely. They reminded him of a far more important—and far more devastating—fact than his continuing inability to stomach that gruesome aftermath of battle.

"My _weakness_ got Arlath killed!" Aragorn scathed, his anger forcing him to his feet at last. "Fat lot of good my so-called strength of character did _him_."

Well, Folca certainly hadn't been expecting that one. He looked as though he'd just been slapped. To his credit the Marshal recovered quickly, but even still he was staring as though Aragorn had grown an extra head and he wasn't sure if it was a friendly head, or if it was going to bite him.

"What in Béma's name are you carrying on about?"

Aragorn had expected shock. He'd even braced himself for outrage, once that shock had settled into realization. Thus Folca's sheer bafflement went a long way towards defusing his own anger. It was the disbelief though that undid him completely. So Folca didn't know, then. Aragorn could have sworn he'd told him, almost immediately after the battle, but he'd replayed it all so often in that haunted theatre behind his eyelids that he had to consider that, perhaps, he'd only dreamt it. Accepting that, Aragorn sighed, and felt fight drain out of him. He lowered himself back down to the crate again, all the while trying to organize his thoughts and separate memory from nightmare. He owed Folca the truth, even if he felt something in his chest tighten at the thought of it.

And so it was truth that Aragorn gave him, down to the last, bitter detail. From the moment he realized the weakness in his left shoulder to all he did to exacerbate it, his rough voice grated over the explanations, rendering them in harsh, clinical detail. Then finally, as a man might take a knife to his own flesh, Aragorn dredged up the awful memory of Arlath's death. He spoke of his final return to Edbaning on the heels of wild, unfounded hope and viciously plunged the tale onward until he came to the soul-shattering moment when he realized his grip had failed. His quicksilver eyes had clouded over, all recognition of their audience gone, as he recounted everything in between.

Silence descended when Aragorn finished speaking, a great yawning chasm of silence that separated him from Folca and that left each of them isolated and adrift in the sea of their own thoughts. Aragorn had known in advance how ineffectual an apology would be, but he had been determined to give one anyway. Folca and Arlath had been friends since childhood and Aragorn knew that such a loss merited at least token acknowledgment. He had been bracing himself to make such an acknowledgement when Folca surprised him by speaking first.

"I… Thank you, Thorongil. I hadn't— … But it's of surprising comfort, to know."

Shock from Folca, finally. It was skimming on the surface of the turbulent brew of emotions Aragorn heard in those unexpected words. Relief was there too, and Aragorn realized that, given the absence of a body, hearing in detail the final moments of Arlath's life brought some measure of closure to his death. He hadn't considered that before, but it made sense.

Yet whatever else the Marshal might have been feeling, Aragorn didn't bother with deciphering it. Whether decorum or cowardice, he simply didn't want to know; and beyond that, perhaps, was the fact that it didn't really matter anyway. Folca had been upset first and shocked later, and had even thanked him—_thanked him!_—for the tale before Aragorn could muster the courage to say anything else. It seemed to him that the world had suddenly, violently, flipped on its head. He could barely sort out his own feelings at that moment, let alone bother with anyone else's. How could he, when he didn't even know which way was up? The subsequent vertigo, so to speak, kept Aragorn seated and silent, and entirely unable to meet Folca's eyes.

"_There_ you are!"

Aragorn tensed, startled by the sudden shout, but it was pure reflex for he recognized the voice. Eolad. His friend was either blessed or cursed with a preternatural sense of timing, as though it was his own unique destiny to rescue Aragorn from the terrifying dangers of the awkward moment. Even now he was jogging his way over, completely ignorant of what he was walking into.

"I've been looking all over for you," Eolad was saying, quieter now that he had Aragorn's attention. "Me and half the staff. You're just lucky I found you first—Master Aldwine isn't exactly pleased that you ducked out on him."

"I wasn't ducking out," Aragorn objected but without any heat; a knee-jerk reaction steeped in exhaustion rather than indignance. He dropped his head into his hands for a moment and, around a ragged breath, pulled himself back together with effort. When at last he looked to Eolad all traces of that internal struggle had vanished, and instead his eyes fairly glittered in the light of renewed purpose. "I was looking for the king."

The healer seemed at least partially mollified by that, or at least, sufficiently shocked that he didn't quite know how to proceed. "Oh. Ah, well—"

"I might have known," Folca's gruff voice wedged itself suddenly into Eolad's attempt at a reply. The healer seemed grateful, and well he should for all knew that His Majesty was waiting somewhat impatiently for the chance to speak with his erstwhile herald and it was only the Master Healer's insistence that Thorongil was not yet well enough that stayed his insistence. That and the fact that with his broken leg His Majesty could never manage the winding stairs up to the keep. To have his master and his king pulling him at cross-purposes was certainly not an enviable position, and then of course Thorongil was known to keep his own counsel, regardless.

"His Majesty has appropriated the garrison offices for his use," Folca went on. "I'll show you—that is, if you're up to a bit of a walk."

Folca was back to studying him again, Aragorn noted with chagrin, like he was an odd-shaped bug in a bell jar. He didn't know what Folca was looking to find, but he did his level best to flash a convincing smile in the Marshal's direction, never mind that it probably stretched as pale and thin as his courage in that moment. Yet somewhere in it, Folca found what he was searching for.

"You will make our excuses to Master Aldwine?"

"Of course, milord," Eolad agreed, relieved.

Folca nodded, either at both of them or neither, and with a decisive turn, wordlessly beckoned Aragorn to follow him.

Mercifully, they did not return through the Great Hall. Instead, Folca led them through the winding, narrow courtyard, which grew more crowded as they went along. Refugees were gathering in clusters, cliquey and yet subdued as they took direction from the soldiers who were attempting—somewhat unsuccessfully—to herd them.

"The first of the caravans are to leave by midday," Folca explained, having caught Aragorn's bewildered look and surmised the cause.

"For Edoras?"

"For wherever they might receive welcome," Folca corrected. "The Hornburg wasn't meant to shelter as many as have come from the ruin of the Westfold. Those with family still hale in the townships left standing will make their way there."

That made sense, Aragorn acknowledged, but it gave birth to another pertinent question. "But, won't they rebuild?"

"Edbaning, certainly," Folca replied. "It remains the pinnacle of our western defenses. Though, it will take quite a bit of time before enough timber can be sent from Gondor."

"I thought _this_ was the pinnacle of the western defense."

That earned a harsh bark of laughter from the Marshal, laced with bitterness and irony and the echoes of old argument. "This fortress may save our skins—and indeed it has, more than once. But it will not save our kingdom, if ever it should come to that. Holed up here, we may outlast our enemies, but so too would we outlast all that we would be fighting for. That would hardly be a measure of victory."

Aragorn bit his lip and focused on matching pace with Folca, who had lengthened his stride. Realizing that he'd unknowingly picked at a scab obviously still sore for his friend, he clamped down on his resolve and promised himself he wouldn't ask the next question that clamored noisily inside is mind. He had more discretion—more respect for Folca than that. No, he would not ask.

"But, what of Strathcomb?"_Nai c__aer menig__ delyth dui aminesse!_

Folca's answer was so soft Aragorn almost missed it amidst the chaos of the courtyard. "There is no Strathcomb," he said, the words bringing him up short. Aragorn nearly crashed into him, but he veered to the left and sidestepped a broken handcart in time to avoid disaster. Meanwhile Folca found the strength to continue; that same strength held him rigid, his back to Aragorn, as he forced the truth to comply with his tongue. "Not by half. Too many stayed, hoping to defend their homes, to stem the tide long enough for reinforcements to arrive."

The truth slammed into Aragorn with the crushing weight of grief and nearly took his breath away. Yet he was left with air enough to rasp: "And we came too late!"

Folca nodded, though it was an abbreviated gesture, with his chin falling to his chest as some of the tension slowly bled from his stance. A harsh exhale and he looked up again, and Aragorn saw for the first time how much this war had truly cost his friend. The Westfold was his protectorate, its soldiers his own command. What was left of that legacy now, save ash and unmarked graves? The mantle of responsibility, which had previously draped over Folca's shoulders like a well-worn cloak, now settled about the man like shackles, irrevocably chaining him to a towering wall of sorrow and guilt. Shame flooded Aragorn as he remembered his own pitiful lamentations of his failures, for though their persistent memories cut him still, his spirit could hardly be as flayed as Folca's must have been.

"The women and children who remain will make their way back to their families," Folca was saying, "if they have them. Those that don't will head for Edoras. Arrangements are already being made. They'll find housing there until they can get back on their feet and apply a trade if they've learned one, or find work in the fields." Then, as though suddenly realizing he'd been rambling, Folca shook his head to clear it of the troublesome thoughts that kept spilling through his teeth.

"You'll find the king through there," the Marshal said, changing the course of their conversation so swiftly Aragorn felt the whiplash. When he recovered, he saw Folca pointing to a large door that even now was swinging wide to admit a trio of soldiers, dressed to ride. "You can follow that to the garrison offices. It's far to the rear, along the entrance to the caves. Mind that you stick to the main thoroughfare and you'll be fine. If all else fails, just follow the sound of arguing."

Aragorn was too much a jumble of nerves to laugh at that statement, but he did manage a tired smile. Yet when Folca bade him farewell around the excuse that he had pressing matters to attend to Aragorn couldn't help but feel oddly abandoned, as though the rock he had been sheltering against had suddenly rolled away, leaving him lonely and exposed, bereft of any support. And now that his first conversation with Thengel since Edbaning loomed imminently on his horizon, Aragorn had to wonder if he was truly equal to the task. His mind was exhausted from trying to keep pace with his heart, which constantly changed tracks with all the reckless abandon of a fox fleeing the hounds.

As his moment of indecision drew out, a bone-weary exhaustion settled over him and Aragorn wasted precious moments trying to determine _why_ he was so blasted tired and, in a fit of irony, wished for nothing more than the chance to flop down onto a bed and _sleep_; as though avoiding the rest of this mess of a Valar-forsaken day would scrub its memories from his mind and, upon waking, he would find that the world had righted itself again and returned to some semblance of familiar form.

Then he remembered that he hadn't slept the night before.

Then, he remembered why.

With blinding insight, Aragorn realized that the world would _never_ right itself again. It couldn't go back to the way he'd known before for the simple fact that _he_ couldn't go back. An infinite number of new dawns couldn't shed a different light on this day, or any of its horrible predecessors. No amount of avoidance, in dreams or out of them, would rinse his memories clean of them and even if they could, nothing would cleanse the blood from his hands, or from his sword. It was a sobering thought, and ill company in the long, claustrophobic corridor that led inevitably to the garrison offices, and his much belated appointment with the king.

In the end, he didn't have to follow the sound of arguing after all. Instead, he simply followed the messengers. Apparently His Majesty had appropriated the fleet-footed services of many young lads, the survivors of the Westfold. They led him down a winding passageway, darting around corners and ducking beneath low arches as they left the constructed garrison behind in favor of the caves, which had been decked and braced like mineshafts deep into the mountains. When at last he did hear Thengel's voice, the king was dictating a report. Aragorn waited patiently just out of sight until at last yet another messenger departed, sheave of parchment rolled up tightly in one hand.

Deeming it now safe to enter, Aragorn rounded the corner in time to catch Thengel's next directive: he ordered a soldier—one Freca's men, according to his heraldry—to follow up on the inventory of their stores. The soldier nodded and made his exit, nodding politely to Aragorn as he went. Aragorn spared him a polite smile, even as his eyes slid past the man's departure and settled on the king. His Majesty was seated behind a large desk littered with scrolls and sporting a lamp precariously perched on one corner. His left arm was bound tightly to his side in a sling that doubled as rib support, while his right hand clutched a quill that appeared in desperate need of sharpening. Thengel's gaze was fixed on the mess of paper before him, as though he was striving to find his place now that his (borrowed) office was free from distraction, and Aragorn hesitated over the etiquette of distracting a king.

"Sire?" he entreated at last, having collected the final dregs of his courage.

King Thengel started, dropping the quill as his gaze snapped upwards, and he broke into a wide grin when realized who'd just interrupted his thoughts. "Thorongil!"

Aragorn ducked his head as he bent forward slightly at the waist in respectful yet abbreviated diffidence to Thengel's royal station. "Your Majesty."

"Well don't just stand there, Thorongil! Come in! Here, step into the light. Let me get a look at you—Béma knows I can't get up and over to you, so you'll just have to come to me."

Blindsided by Thengel's enthusiasm, Aragorn drifted forward into the pool of light spilling from the desk lamp. Thengel upped the flame and the room brightened a bit, and with the extra light Aragorn noted how pale the king really looked. He had dark circles beneath his eyes, and there were lines of pain etched behind his smile. He was forced to perch awkwardly on the edge of his chair to accommodate the splint that traversed the length of his right leg. Thengel looked haggard, stretched thin across the breadth of his duties, though he hid it fairly well beneath his unbridled delight at his herald's sudden appearance. Yet even still, that herald counted himself a healer first.

"Are you well, my lord?"

"About as well as can be expected," Thengel answered, somehow managing to be both candid and evasive. "And you? The healers have been frustratingly vague regarding your condition."

"I am—recovering." Aragorn bit off the lie at the last possible second. While he could have attested to being well, he knew that the king would not have been fooled and probably would have taken exception to the attempt.

Even still, Thengel's gaze narrowed in his direction. "I'm sure you are."

Aragorn ducked his head, blushing slightly. He suddenly felt impossibly awkward.

"Oh! I am reminded—I have something for you."

Thengel's exclamation grabbed Aragorn's attention again. Blinking, he looked up. "Sire?"

Thengel reached behind him to the floor, then:

"My sword!" For indeed it was. Thengel drew it from its borrowed sheath and presented it to Aragorn with as much flourish as he could manage left-handed and from his seated position. Aragorn saw that it had been well cleaned, and if he had to guess he'd also presume that the blade had been oiled and sharpened. It looked almost pristine, resting awkwardly as it did in Thengel's grasp, for the king was offering it hilt-first. One could almost imagine that it had never seen a day's combat, that it had never shed a drop of blood at all.

Perhaps for that reason, Aragorn was suddenly hesitant to take it up again.

"I must thank you for the lending of it," Thengel was saying, and Aragorn finally convinced his fingers to close around the hilt. Then, as if in reflex, he pivoted his wrist, bringing the sword around in a sweeping arc until the blade was vertical. Sure enough, the blade had been well tended—better than it had seen in a long while. And close inspection revealed the flaws: the nicks in the blade, the notches in the guard, the wear on the leather grip. Yes the sword was well cared for, but it was also well used, and no amount of spit and polish could fully obscure its history. It was not surprising that Aragorn felt a sudden kinship with the blade, for hadn't war also left its mark upon him, body and soul?

For the first time in his life, Aragorn understood exactly what all the old soldiers meant when they insisted that their sword was merely an extension of their arm, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with grace and economy of movement. For the first time in his life, Aragorn felt complete for the weight of that sword in his hand—and for half a breath, fervently wished that it was not so. Then he took the sheath that Thengel offered, and slid the blade home.

"It seems that there is a great deal that I must thank you for, in fact."

Aragorn's gaze snapped up at that, a puzzled frown settling on his features. Thengel raised a hand to forestall the inevitable protest.

"But this is hardly the time for such discussions," he explained. "Nor the place." His gaze warmed on Aragorn then, even as he did his best to ignore Aragorn's careless look of relief for the delay. "For now I'll simply express my gratitude to Béma that you made it home, alive and well."

Aragorn inclined his head, the briefest of respectful nods. "Thank you, sire."

"You're a good man, Thorongil. You served well as my herald."

Aragorn felt himself flush and let his eyes skirt away from the king. "When I remembered to blow the horn," he amended, clinging to his self-reproach because it was the safest answer.

"Well, it _was_ only your first day." That elicited a rueful chuckle, which Thengel counted as victory.

"Indeed," Aragorn conceded.

"And besides, you've more than earned the position—no," there went that hand again, holding off any protests Aragorn might have made. "Let's not speak of such matters now. The future is before us still, once this not insignificant hurdle is past." Half a gesture, an elaborate half-shrug really, in the general vicinity of the Hornburg conveyed his meaning. "Just know that you are welcomed to ride at my right hand."

"I—" Yet whatever words he might have spoken lodged firmly in the back of Aragorn's throat and went no further. He was forced to swallow thickly around the painful lump they created. "I thank you, Thengel Cyning," he managed at last, his admittedly tentative grasp of Rohirric having deserted him, forcing him to bollix his sentence with two languages.

The king paid it no mind, however. "There is just one thing I would like you to consider, Thorongil. Especially as I have not yet released you from my service." The teasing glint in Thengel's eye completely undermined the implied threat, thus Aragorn was merely curious as he waited for the king to elaborate.

"It seems the Master Healer believes it would be the epitome of recklessness for me to ride to Edoras in my present condition," Thengel informed him, his displeasure with the situation obvious in his disgruntled tone. "Never mind that plenty of our countrymen have ridden with broken bones and to no great ill." The king lapsed into silence for a moment, obviously caught up in some memory or other involving that very feat.

Meanwhile Aragorn was frowning. "How _do_ you plan to make your return, then?" he asked after a moment, a sinking feeling swilling in his gut and rooting itself between his toes. Surely His Majesty wasn't about to ask him to countermand the Master Healer?

"Freca's set his carpenters to turning a horse cart into a chariot of sorts, something that will allow me to sit down and still keep my dignity. Well, most of it." It was a decidedly un-regal scowl that transformed Thengel's face as he amended that.

"Ingenious, sire." Aragorn kept his voice carefully neutral, respect for the garrison commander's ingenuity balanced against diffidence to the king's opinions of the matter.

Thengel scoffed slightly, as though he'd been doing entirely too much of that lately and the gesture was starting wear rather thin. "It'll serve well enough," he agreed, "but that brings me to my point. As my herald, it would fall to you to drive the Royal Chariot."

Aragorn blinked, quite certain he'd heard sardonic capitals around 'Royal Chariot.' "Sire?"

"If you're up for it, that is," the king added after a moment's pause, his discerning gaze falling heavily on the sling Aragorn still wore on his right arm.

Aragorn's proclivity to downplay the severity of his injuries was at odds with his tacit appreciation of the consequences of failure at such a task, thus he decided to answer Thengel's question with one of his own. "When are you scheduled to depart?"

"Oh, not for several days, at least. The chariot is still being built, and at any rate it'll take at least that long for the scouts to report in. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if the riders took thrice as long."

Aragorn pursed his lips a moment, hesitating. "The longer we delay, the more time for both of us to heal."

"And you? Will you be healed enough when the time comes?" Thengel's tone was light enough, but his piercing glance would settle for nothing less than the absolute truth.

Aragorn dropped his gaze to the floor. He sucked in a slow breath and then glanced up again, a courage that he did not feel now shining in his light eyes. "With proper care my shoulder will take several moons to fully heal; longer still, before it is strengthened once again."

"And your arm?" Thengel prompted, cutting his herald no quarter.

"My arm…" Aragorn's voice trailed awkwardly as he raised the limb in question. His left arm, seemingly in perfect order now, yet it was only days ago that it had failed him utterly. He balled a fist, watched his fingers curl before his eyes, pressed them tightly until his tendons shook with the strain of it. Then, as though it was his will and not his muscles he had mastered, he let his fingers slowly fray until his hand relaxed completely. "My hand…" he murmured, the words harshly pulled from the back of his throat as he studied the small crescent indentations his fingernails had left in his palm.

Then all at once he shuddered, the motion brief and violent, a marionette jouncing on its strings. And he shook his head, to clear the smoke from his vision, to silence Arlath's scream from ringing in his ears. When he looked up again Thengel caught the startled flash of too-bright eyes and knew at once that it would be a long time indeed before Thorongil was fully healed.

"We've no need to decide things now," the king pronounced, his studiously casual tone catching Aragorn's attention at once. "As I've said, the chariot isn't even assembled yet. Just know that your place is with me, Thorongil, when we make the ride to Edoras."

Aragorn flushed, somehow managing to look surprised and awkward and ill, all at once. "Yes, sire. Thank you."

Thengel gracelessly waved him off. "Meanwhile you should rest, recover your strength. I understand you're only lately out of a sickbed, yourself. Heed the healers and doubtless you'll be ready to ride when the time comes."

"Yes, sire," Aragorn repeated, both tone and stance off-kilter still. In his sudden, immense exhaustion he took Thengel's words as a dismissal. He bowed as deeply as he dared, the movements swift and jerky, and made a hasty and graceless exit. Once outside the offices he allowed himself to slump against the wall, knees bent, his back braced against the rough stones. There he tilted his head back as the world pitched and rolled in time with his stomach, and he waited for an end to the incessant pounding in his ears.

When Aragorn finally stumbled back to the little room atop the keep he found Captain Fengel asleep once more, and breathing easily. Then, given that the sun was still high outside their window, Aragorn reckoned that this was perhaps the safest time to rest. His exhaustion had left him punchy, with an aching heaviness in his limbs offset, strangely, by giddiness. He'd been through this before, in the aftermath of the Midwinter War, and so knew from experience that if he pushed his body hard enough he could sleep without dreams. That was exactly what he aimed to do now, in the relative safety of the afternoon, and indeed he fell asleep almost before his body had the chance to stretch itself out atop his pallet.

* * *

Aragorn awoke disoriented in the morning twilight, with faceless ghosts dancing before his vision on wisps of smoke. He blinked and sat up, hard, only to rediscover the flaming ache across his chest and the gentle throbbing of his right shoulder. He found a guttering candle flickering on the small table, precariously close to the head of his pallet, and for a moment he sat frozen, captivated by the dancing flame. He wrenched himself out of his trance a second later, saved only by the suddenly urgent need to relieve himself. He discovered then that a chamber pot had been left for his use, but he much preferred the tailor-made excuse to stretch his legs—and, perhaps, to relieve his sudden claustrophobia. 

He made his way down through the fortress and into the courtyard. There he reclined against a rain barrel and let his gaze drift heavenwards. He easily spotted the Gil-Estel and tried to feel bolstered by the sight, but the autumn air was chilly and his breath fogged before his eyes. Ill at ease, he stood again and continued on his way. Now wide awake, Aragorn felt that a walk would do him good, perhaps help to calm the nerves that were jangling in jagged edges just below his skin.

Eventually Aragorn found his way outside the garrison, and when he'd traveled a good distance into the countryside he stopped, just as the first rosy fingers of dawn began to creep out of the east. He turned into the rising sun, shivering even as he felt its warmth, and he shut his eyes as Anor arose at last, a giant ball of flame. Aragorn knew that he should start heading back; the Hornburg would be stirring soon and surely he would be missed, but instead he watched the surrounding grassland toss about in the morning breeze, a frothy sea of wilted greens and scorched amber that chased the western horizon. He'd been to Lindon once and had seen the fringes of the Sundering Sea, and on a bleary, overcast morning the water had writhed in shades of iron and slate. It had been a foreboding sight—until Círdan had laughed at him and suggested they go sailing; but this?

This…

For all that the sky was clear, the weather fair, and the ocean made of wheat, it still lay irrevocably in his path, a living, breathing barrier to that which lay beyond, and just like that long-ago morning Aragorn realized with heart-wrenching clarity that the sudden, fierce yearning in his soul would never be appeased, that the sea's siren song of Home was never meant for him. Just as on that long-ago morning he felt that old familiar foreboding at the sight of the one obstacle he was destined _never_ to overcome. Now he found himself standing on the hither shore again, staring headlong into the fundamental truth of what it meant to be of the Second Born, and once again he felt the familiar sting in his eyes, only this time he couldn't blame it on the salt-spray.

A sudden, warm touch on the back of his left shoulder and Aragorn jumped, startled. It was Ulmafan, deciding to practice her stealth in wishing him good morning—or more likely he had simply been too swept up in his thoughts to hear her approach. Apparently the horses had been let out to graze. He greeted her just as silently, leaning his aching right shoulder into her neck for the warmth of it while the fingers of his left hand carded absently through her mane, working out the tangles as they went. Then he sighed, a low, keening sound, and Ulmafan bent her head around just so, and Aragorn was temporarily sheltered from the wind.

"Mellonin," he murmured, the softness of the Grey Tongue sounding oddly harsh as it broke the silence. Aragorn bowed his head and buried his face in Ulmafan's neck, his fingers curling into claws as his hand fisted in her mane. His reward was that his mare stomped her feet, as if suddenly impatient. That had Aragorn looking up again, and Ulmafan tossed her head. Then slowly, a fractured smile slid across Aragorn's face.

It had been far too long since he'd ridden in Elven fashion.

A moment later and Aragorn was swinging up onto Ulmafan's back, and as soon as the mare sensed that he was properly seated she took off. He freed his right arm of its sling and grabbed hold of Ulmafan's mane with both hands while with his knees he urged the mare faster. He bent low along her neck—pain be damned—and together they thundered westward, leaving behind a wake of trampled grass, a narrow swath of burnt sienna. Laughter bubbled up from Aragorn's gut unbidden, smoothing over the rough patches on his heart as it passed by, as he remembered that long-ago day, when he let Círdan drag him out to sea. Nothing had changed—he still could not sail unto the Blessed Shore, could not surmount his simple adan fate, but for one single, blessed day he'd thumbed his nose at it and that had soothed his spirit in ways he never knew he'd needed.

And so began the pattern of Aragorn's days inside the Hornburg. Always he would wake before dawn and wait for Anor in the fields. There Ulmafan would find him, and together they'd blaze new trails through the tall grasses. They'd always return before the sun had reached her zenith and then, after giving Ulmafan her rubdown, Aragorn would present himself to the groomsmen, who'd been so busy as of late with other comings and goings of the garrison-turned-refugee camp that many of the horses had been neglected. Slowly but surely Aragorn worked his way among them, treating the minor trophies of war that had gone unnoticed and washing away its memories. By the end they all had seen him, knew that he was not a threat and appreciated that he was there to care for them, and in doing so Aragorn earned the undying gratitude of the garrison stable master, who had his hands full simply with making sure each horse had a place to shelter every night.

By necessity his work in the fields ended at dusk and so Aragorn retreated behind the Deeping Wall and gave himself over to the Master Healer, who insisted on daily inspections of his injuries. Once this slight indignity had been endured, Aragorn would entreat the Master Healer to put him to work, and so his evenings were spent cataloguing supplies, washing bandages, and anything other thankless task that needed tending. As the need was no longer urgent, the Master Healer was hardly disposed to allow Aragorn to subject his still-healing injuries to strenuous labor. Of course, once the man got wind of how Aragorn had been spending his days (and after the thorough dressing-down) he got to add clipping horsetails for suture fiber to his afternoon routine.

On and on it went, the days bleeding into each other in one long stretch of endless work. Always Aragorn would retire late into the midnight watch, having deliberately pushed his body beyond his mind's capacity for nightmares. Sometimes the smoke of the cooking fires set his teeth on edge. Sometimes when he was forced to suddenly grab hold of something with his left hand a jolt of not-quite-pain would streak up through his arm. Some nights he would take dinner with Folca, and for a few moments he'd actually forget and then catch himself waiting for Arlath to join them.

Some nights, in the quiet moments before he allowed sleep to claim him, grief over the loss of his home would seize his heart in its merciless jaws and threaten to rip him apart from the inside out. He knew that past experiences made it worse, that this new pain was relentlessly carving up old scars, but of course thoughts of Imladris were exceedingly unhelpful. Then he stopped trying to rationalize the hurt into submission, because it felt too much like he was slipping on his own blood, a reminder that he was hemorrhaging inside and wouldn't stop until he bled out. And so he gave himself over to his labors so he wouldn't have to think on anything else, and he gave in each night to sheer exhaustion so that the stray thoughts couldn't catch him unaware.

* * *

It was on his eleventh morning—twelfth, if you took the day he first awoke—that King Thengel summoned him at last. Freca's carpenters had successfully converted a small horse carriage into a custom chariot to be drawn by two of Rohan's finest draft horses, and upon receipt of the updated scouting reports the Royal Caravan was making ready to depart at last for Edoras. His Majesty needed to know if Aragorn was fit to assume the herald's station. 

Aragorn actually hadn't given the matter much thought after their initial conversation, but in the intervening days he had truly grown to appreciate Folca's pronouncement that one hard-up stay would leave him hating Helm's Deep. Thus when he was reminded of Thengel's request he would have sworn up and down the sky was pink if that's what it took for him to finally be able to leave the confines of the Deeping Wall. By then the bruises on his chest had mostly faded, though his ribs still took every opportunity to remind him that they were less than pleased with his activities of late. His right shoulder ached each morning when he awoke, though with time and use that too was getting better. His left arm—_well_. At least it didn't pain him; that had to count for something. Therefore Aragorn was able to pledge his services to the king with a relatively clean conscious. After all, how much effort could it be to stand in one place for hours steering a glorified wagon?

Not much at all, as it turned out.

The caravan set out at mid-morning beneath a stunning canopy of bright blue sky marred here and there with high puffy clouds, which peppered the plains below with isolated, drifting shadows. The air was crisp and clean, and the company was in good spirits for the prospect of returning to Edoras, for they were of the king's éored and made their home inside the city. They were led by the Thengel's honor guard: a six-rider semi-circle that surrounded the Royal Chariot on three sides. The rest of the procession, some two hundred riders, followed along behind them.

Aragorn stood at the front of the chariot with the reins held loosely in his left hand. As long as they kept pace with the honor guard he saw no reason why the draft horses couldn't have their heads. He still wore the sling on his right arm, though it was mostly to appease the Master Healer. As long as he wasn't actually exercising the limb it rarely bothered him.

King Thengel rested uncomfortably behind his herald on a wide, padded chair that might as well have been a throne for it sat upon a dais that put His Majesty a good head and shoulders above Aragorn. Of course the king would have much rather ridden, or even driven the chariot himself—and by then everyone had heard of it, probably more than once. Even so, he did his royal best not to complain too loudly en route, not when his herald had to stand the entire time and perfectly within earshot.

It wasn't a terribly long ride from Helm's Deep, but for horsemen accustomed to traversing the distance at speed this particular journey seemed to drag on forever. To pass the time—and perhaps because they were essentially stuck with each other—Aragorn and Thengel drifted in and out of conversations about all manner of things, from archery and hunting and recitations of adventurous yarns therein to comparisons between wines and ales and a few confessions of ridiculous tales of related woe. They spoke of horses, and Aragorn admitted that Ulmafan had been a gift when he came of age and that it was true she had been elf-trained; in return, Thengel recalled the first horse he'd broken for the saddle and shared a few humorous anecdotes about it. They spoke of Gondor, and Aragorn informed His Majesty that though his own ancestry was of the Northern Dúnedain he had never been to the southern kingdom; and so Thengel plied him with tales of Gondorian folklore, and described in loving detail the vales of asphodel and eglantine that followed the River Erui, in Lossarnach where he'd first met Morwen.

At some point along the ride it had been agreed—and no small thanks in part to Aragorn's gifts of persuasion—that the company should come to a halt just outside of Edoras. After all, it was difficult to convey the manner of a triumphant return when it came at the end of a long day's ride. They circled the horses a half a league from the city, passed around their water skins and tidied their appearances, put the long ride behind them and sang rousing songs of victory and encouragement so that they might not look so haggard and downtrodden for their own homecoming parade. Aragorn had been preparing for this moment since the king had first agreed and so when the time came he was more than ready.

"Excuse me, sire, but I should check the splint on your arm."

Thengel shrugged his right shoulder, perplexed but agreeable. "Whatever for?" he asked, even as Aragorn began undoing the ties that held the strips of wood in place.

"It needs adjusting," was Aragorn's distracted reply. He didn't look up from his task and a moment later he had the splint undone entirely. He paused just shy of removing it completely, and shot the king a worried glance. "Is Master Aldwine nearby?"

Thengel used his elevated position to quickly survey the area. "His horse is grazing on the far side from us. Why?"

Aragorn's response was to flash a devilish grin as he grabbed His Majesty's crutch. Then with swift, deft fingers he bound the splint around the upper end and so the crutch was affixed, after a fashion, to Thengel's arm. Aragorn was skilled enough at the task that the king was spared any discomfort, and so his expression was merely one of dumbfounded shock when Aragorn looked up again.

"Sire?" he entreated, reaching out for Thengel with both hands.

The king understood then, and he laughed in sheer delight—either at the prospect of driving his own chariot or of annoying the healers, it didn't matter which. "I imagine he'll be rather upset with you," he informed Aragorn in reference to the Master Healer even as he accepted the offered help down from the dais.

"Oh, probably," Aragorn agreed, sounding altogether indifferent at the idea. Though when his eyes met Thengel's the king was startled by his intent expression. "But as you rode out of Edoras under your own power; your return should follow in similar fashion."

Thengel was rendered temporarily speechless, but he recovered quickly. "Þancword, Thorongil."

Aragorn bowed slightly, no more than a dip of the head, but his eyes were as solemn as the king's voice had been. "Ábútan min gebréman, Thengel Cyning." That time, he was absolutely sure of his translations.

"Take my chair," Thengel directed, nodding to the dais.

Aragorn's eyes widened. "Sire?"

"It's only fair—I've usurped your station; the least I can do is offer up my own in return."

Aragorn smiled his thanks and climbed up to the makeshift throne. From there he watched as Thengel situated himself properly, found his balance between his left leg and the crutch, and took up the reins in his right hand. Once he was ready Thengel ordered their company to form ranks. Aragorn waited until the honor guard had taken their positions and, catching Thengel's eye, he raised the herald's horn to his lips and the call to muster resounded across the plains. And thus the king's éored began its final victory march.

Aragorn watched from Thengel's seat as Edoras slowly loomed larger on the horizon. "Shall I, sire?" he asked when he judged them to be close enough.

Thengel glanced back at him, and grinned.

Aragorn raised the horn again, and this time blasted two loud, long notes, announcing their arrival. Announcing their victory. The chosen of the honor guard hoisted their banners high and the men took up the call, inarticulate cries blending into garbles of Rohirric spiced with Westron, and soon they were riding as hard as Thengel dared to drive his chariot—a brisk yet dignified trot.

Aragorn stood out of the way and watched them go, for while the riders had been lost to their preemptive celebration he'd slipped quietly over the side of the chariot and slinked away, as he had planned to all along. He hadn't yielded control of the chariot to Thengel only to sit in the seat of honor as His Majesty drove them home. As the éored rode on ahead Aragorn followed at a sedate pace, right arm secure in its sling and left hand holding the horn steady at his side, as the sun sunk slowly behind back and cast long shadows before his feet.

And so at last he beheld Edoras beneath a blanket of purple twilight, with faint stars twinkling overhead and a fiery ribbon brushing the western horizon. Already he could hear the sounds of revelry. As he made his way towards the city, a mere eighteen days after he'd so bravely departed, a smile blossomed on his face, incongruent, mirthless, because to him it felt like eighteen years. He had been such a fool. Now he had no choice but to paste a smile on his face, and face his hero's welcome.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Anor_: the sun

_Arda_: the world

_Lasto beth nîn, hir-gon_: (S) Hear my words, lord-captain.

_Tolo dan n'galad_: (S) Come back to the light.

_Béma_: the name in Rohan for the Vala Oromë

_Nai caer menig__ delyth dui aminesse_: (S) a curse, "Let (lit: May it be that) ten thousand curses (lit: abhorrences) flow unto me (lit: in me)."

_Cyning_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): king

_Mellonin_: my friend

_Adan/Edain_: human (individual)/humans or human race.

_Éored_: a Lord of Rohan's loyal soldiers.

_Þ__ancword_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): Thank you (lit: 'a word of thanks')

_Ábútan min gebréman_: (Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon)): On my honor.

* * *

AN: Thank you kindly for your reviews and also for your patience in waiting for this update. I will hopefully be getting last chapters review replies out in the next few days. Also, starting with this chapter I'll start answering reviews as they come in, as opposed to all at once when I post the next update. I remind everyone that wishes a reply to either sign in or leave a valid email address. 


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